This Is Why Servers Get Angry at Being Stiffed

Fuck!

Fuck!

Dear Man at Table #201,

I was so very impressed when I went to your table and saw a big fancy one-hundred dollar bill laying next to your check. My first thoughts were, “Wow, he must be really rich and powerful in order to have hundred dollar bills in his wallet. I am envious of someone like him, gee willikers.” It must have been really cool to see you reach into your wallet and toss that money onto the table and then waltz out of the restaurant. Everyone sitting with and around you must have been pretty impressed. I mean, a hundred dollar bill?? Wow! But here’s the deal. Your check totaled $117.32. You know what that means, right? Yeah, you walked out on your check, you big pile of stinky dog shit. So not only did you not leave me a tip, you think I will just cover that extra $17.32, is that it? You sir, are a gentleman and an asshole.

Just so you know, when it comes time for me to pay taxes, the government is going to assume that I got tipped 8% of your check, or in other words, $9.39. So I will be taxed and social securitied and FICA’d about $2.35. But here’s the deal: you didn’t tip me. I can’t call up Uncle Sam and say, “Oh yeah, the asshole at Table 201 didn’t actually tip me so just disregard that bill, thanks.” Nope. I will pay that $2.35 regardless. So not only did I not make any money from your table, I lost money by serving you. In some restaurants, I would be expected to tip the busser or food runner based on my sales. So if I had to tip them 2% of whatever I sold, I would be expected to give them $2.34 even though you didn’t tip me jack shit. Are you starting to see how crappy it was of you to walk out on your check like you did?

In some places, the managers will make waiters pay for that loss out of their own pocket which really really sucks. That’s when waiters have to get creative and start moving things around from one check to another just to cover that loss. Ethical, no. Necessary, yes. Lucky for me I was working at a place where my managers know that people like you exist and my manager voided off some items from your check so it would be under $100.00. That isn’t always the case though.

Yes, I tried to find you. I ran out onto the street to see if I could spot your weasel ass slinking away but you had already crawled back into your hole and vanished. I just wanted to let you know that you really suck. You can’t pull that shit in Macy’s or at Target, but in a restaurant, I guess you can. I know now why you didn’t want to leave a phone number or contact email with the host when you first checked in. We tell you that we like to get your info in case we find an iPhone or a scarf at your table, but really it’s so that I can call your cheap, no-good, thieving ass and tell you that you need to drag your sorry skank self back up to the restaurant and finish paying your check. Good move for you, not leaving a phone number.

So thanks for sitting in my station. It was real pleasure to be reminded that scum like you are out there in the world. I hope you get a severe case of cold sore and pink eye coupled with some major chapped lips and a skin rash. I want your face to be as unattractive as your behavior. Fuck you.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

I hope you will share this so people will know what happens when they don’t pay their check.

Food Peeps: “You Don’t Know Chit”

invitation code: bitchy

invitation code: bitchy

I have been asked to take part in the beginning of a new social media platform that was created for those of us in food service industry. It’s called Chit and I think I kinda like it. You know, on Facebook we have those creepers who come on to my page and tell us things like ‘If you don’t like dealing with the customers, then get a real job!” and “I don’t believe in tipping. It’s not my responsibility to pay your salary!” Then we all jump on that loser and say things like “This page is for servers to vent! Get the fuck outta here!” It’s a never-ending cycle of that.

Well, Chit was designed to be only for us and no one else. And to make sure that no one else can get in there and piss us off, the app is by invitation only. Once you join it, you get five invite codes to give to your friends and you are only supposed to give it to other restaurant folks. (Restaurant folks are sorta like carny folks except we smell like fajitas and Ranch dressing instead of cotton candy and whiskey.) Unlike sneaky ass Facebook, you will see all the posts of those you choose to follow and not just some of them.

I’m gonna give Chit a try and I hope you will too. It’s iPhone only right now, but they are working on an Android version. If you click this link you can download the app and try it out. Use the invitation code “bitchy” so you can get in. I will see you over at Chit, bitches.

The Most Vile Shift Meal Ever in the History of My World

Screen Shot 2015-07-31 at 7.49.04 AMOh shift meal, why have you forsaken me? Each day when I arrive at work, I look to the heavens and ask that today be the day I am given something I truly want to eat for a meal rather than the usual bucket of slop that is placed before me. I smile at the kitchen crew as I punch in and I offer them cold beverages in the hope that they will return my act of kindness with a bowl of macaroni and cheese instead of a bowl of macaroni and fuck it. As my sidework nears completion and I find my eyes glancing towards the window to see if they have bestowed upon us our daily meal, I try not to get my hopes up that there will be a hamburger waiting for me.

At last, I see Juan setting our plates in the window, his face beaming with pride over his creation. At least, it appears that his face is prideful, but after today’s meal, I think that may be a face of vengeance. I hesitantly approach the line to see what wonders await me and hopeful that today will be the day I am not disappointed, scared and angered by what appears on my plate, but today is like every other day.

Oh, dear God, what the fuck is that? I recognize chicken and pasta, swimming in a bowl of red. The very sight of the wing answers the age old question of why the chicken crossed the road. It was to get the fuck away from Juan. Was the wing broiled? Boiled? Microwaved? I have no idea. The sauce appears to be one of a cheesy marinara nature, but one taste proves otherwise. It tastes like it was made by squeezing the liquid from a dish rag that had just been used to clean up the menstrual accident of a pygmy rhinoceros in the throes of birthing triplets. The pasta only dreams of being al dente when, in fact, it is much closer to al dead-te. The amount of oil in the bowl is enough to moisturize a small colony of dry-skinned people who live in some arid climate far, far away. I have seen more life-like skin on leather bags at thrift stores than I am seeing on this chicken.

“Thank you, Juan,” I say.

“Fuck you, Juan, “ I think.

Sadly, I retreat to Table 16 to look at my bowl of food and give thanks that I have a Cliff bar in my locker. Yes, it’s a free meal and I should be thankful for it. I know there are children who are starving in other countries who would be grateful for this bowl of boiled chicken wing and pasta with sauce of disgust, but those kids aren’t here right now. If they were, I would gladly feed them this food, honestly, I would. But they aren’t here and I have only one choice and that is to take a few courtesy bites of this shift meal so as not to hurt Juan’s feelings, although he hurts mine almost every day when he feeds me gruel. After I have forced down a piece of pasta and I make sure that no one is around to see me, I pick up my plate and head to the dish-room where it is deposited into the garbage.

This is a regular occurrence, but today, I took a video to so you can fully understand my daily battle with my shift meal. Tomorrow is another day and maybe it will be the one that brings me a simple grilled cheese with french fries or a voucher for a slice of pizza from next door.

Shift Meal: the Movie

A video posted by thebitchywaiter (@thebitchywaiter) on

Table 16 Says Something So Stupid

NoWaterDropWebAnyone who works in the service industry has had their fair share of stupid questions and comments from customers. You certainly do not have to be waiting tables to deal with morons, but if you want a helpin’ heapin’ servin’ of dumb ass comments, then put on an apron and just wait for ’em. Sometimes people say things that I cannot decipher. In other words, it’s hard to tell if they are serious or giving me some feeble attempt at humor. This was the case not too long ago.

As I approach Table 16 with my pitcher of room temperature water and my attitude of lukewarm smugness, the lady at the table immediately reaches towards her glass. I think she is going to slide it to the edge of the table to make it easier for me to fill, but instead she pulls it closer to her and covers it with her hand. Maybe she knows that I didn’t bother to put ice in the pitcher and she is going to ask for cold water or maybe she is one of those people who want to first hold the glass up to the light to inspect it for water spots, lipstick stains and food remnants, which could all very easily be present since I was not the one who set that table and therefore did not give the utensils and glassware my usual eagle eye of approval. (That’s funny.)

“No water for me,” she says. “Water’s gross. Fish swim in it.”

Really? Is this lady kidding me? She doesn’t drink water because fish swim in it? They also poop in it, reproduce in it and die in it. People pee in it, oil tankers spill in it and factories pour garbage in it. Sea lions get their period in it and spring-breakers who have had too many Coronas throw up in it. The water that is in my pitcher was not just scooped out from the Hudson River nor did it come from Coney Island. It did not come from a pond nor a stream or even a babbling brook. It came from the tap and the last time I checked, there were no fish swimming in the faucet.

“So, no water?” I confirm.

“Blech,” she replies while making a face implying that water is the nastiest thing to have ever touched her lips. Looking at her husband, I know for a fact that her lips have touched something much, much nastier than water.

I have had people tell me before they don’t want any water and I am happy to oblige because it is one less glass I have to keep my eye on to make sure it’s full. Truth be told, even the people who say they love water and will require lots of it don’t necessarily get my undivided attention for keeping their glass full. There are other priorities in food service like hot food and frozen drinks and I am referring to my french fries that I keep in the sidestand and the leftover frozen margarita in a to-go cup that I keep next to said french fries.

I could tell she was waiting for a response from me, like maybe she wanted me to be all, “Oh my God, you don’t drink water??” or “But water is so good for you!!”

Instead I say, “Okay.”

Listen, if you don’t want to drink water, it’s fine with me. But “fish swim in it” is not a good reason. My sister-in-law doesn’t like water. She drinks only Diet Coke. She told me that she drinks nine cans of it a day, which means she probably drinks at least a dozen. The only time water ever makes it into her mouth is when she brushes her teeth, and yes, I too am surprised that she has any teeth to brush. When she goes to bed, she takes a glass of Diet Coke with her and sips it throughout the night. When I asked her why she doesn’t drink water, she just said ‘I don’t like it.” Fine. I don’t get it, but at least she didn’t say some stupid ass bullshit like “fish swim in it.”

When it comes time for the lady at Table 16 to order, she decides she wants the calamari appetizer and the grilled salmon for dinner. So I guess water is so freaking disgusting because fish swim in it but the fish themselves are so freaking delicious that she eats them anyway. Some customers are so eccentric. And by “eccentric” I mean fucking stupid and annoying.

Entitled Mother Alert and I Shall Take Her Down

bitch

bitch

About a week ago, we all got our taints in a twist over the diner owner who yelled at a crying child in her restaurant. It stirred up lots of controversy and people mostly believed that both the parents and the screaming diner lady behaved poorly. I was just about ready to give that frazzled mom the benefit of the doubt when someone sent me the screenshot of a mom who made my taint fill with hatred all over again.

On a Facebook page called Moms n dads of boys, someone named Tracy wrote:

Am I the only person that doesn’t leave a restaurant because of a screaming child?
We’ll calm him down and give him toys or whatever but I honestly don’t care if he’s disturbing other people. We’re paying customers just like the people without children. I’m not gonna get to go boxes just to make other people happy. Other than loud laughter or happy screams my son is usually awesome in public but children have bad days just like us.
Call me a bitch all you want. 😀
♡Tracy♡

Well, Tracy, since you gave me permission to call you a bitch all I want, I gladly accept that challenge and shall begin now: Bitch, pleaseI No, you are not the only person who feels it’s alright to let an out of control child ruin the ambience for anyone who happens to be sitting within a ten yard radius of you and your devil spawn that fell out of your ham wallet, but it certainly does not make it right. What it does make you is a bitch. (Sorry, you said I could call you that all I want…). How can you say you “honestly don’t care” that you are disturbing other people? That makes no sense to me. Then again, I have never pushed an eight-pound human out of a hot pocket so maybe when that happens, it changes your brain chemistry and makes you forget common sense and decency.

Yes, you are paying customers (well, minus the coupons you got for making a complaint on the Facebook page of Applebee’s), but why does that entitle you to have no manners? If your child is making a scene in public, it’s your duty as a parent to try to calm him down and at least act like you give a shit about the rest of the human race, bitch. (That’s the third time I called you “bitch.” Seriously, thank you for the permission, it’s great.) And just so you know, whether your son is producing “loud laughs” or “happy screams,” most people in the restaurant are going to register that as annoying. I don’t care if he’s screaming because he’s happy or if he’s screaming because he’s upset. All I know is I don’t want to hear fucking screaming, bitch. (Four!)

You say that your son is usually “awesome in public” and that’s terrific, but if he is usually awesome, I would think that on those occasions when he isn’t, you would especially want him to behave because you know that he is capable of it. Nobody expects you to immediately ask for a to-go box and vacate the premises the second your son is having a bad day. What we do expect is that you at least try to show everyone in the restaurant that you will not tolerate screaming. For you to openly admit that you don’t care proves to everyone that you are a bitch (fifth time) of a mother and you deserve the ire and hatred that is surely being thrown your way.

Maybe there are plenty of other mothers out there who share your sentiments, but I find it hard to believe that there are many. I choose to believe that most mothers feel the opposite of you and would never freely state that they don’t care if their screaming child is disturbing other people. In other words, I bet that most mothers out there aren’t bitches like you, bitch. (Six times. Seven times.)

Tracy, thank you for letting me call you bitch so many times. It was nice to finally call someone a bitch on the Internet and know that they won’t mind. You’re awesome, bitch. (Eight times!)

Here is the Facebook page of Moms n dads of boys if you want to go check out other foolery.

 

Am I the only person that doesn’t leave a restaurant because of a screaming child? We’ll calm him down and give him…

Posted by Moms n dads of boys on Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Starving Baby or Exaggerating Mother? You Decide.

I doubt your baby is starving.

I doubt your baby is starving.

Oh, entitled parents, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways, you self-absorbed time suckers who think that the world revolves around you and your precocious brat who won’t shut the hell up even for one second.

Last week, a five top came in; four adults and one diaper-wearing, needy one year old human who required a high chair. I go to greet them at the front door.

“Hello, how are you tonight? Table for five?”

“My baby is starving. I need bread,” snapped the mother.

Really? That’s how we’re going to start our evening together, by you completely ignoring the (fake ass) pleasantries I am offering you? Is it my fault that you, as a mother, failed to bring a goddamn Ziploc baggie of Goldfish to nourish your child during the long trip from you apartment down the street all the way to the restaurant?

What I said: Alright, let me go get some bread for you and then I can pull some tables together for your party to sit down.

What I thought: I’m sorry, but is your baby from some drought stricken country in Africa and he hasn’t had clean water in days? Is your child one of the 15 million who will die of hunger this year? Is he part of the 50% of all children under five years of age in South Asia and one third of those in sub-Saharan Africa who are are malnourished? Is he one out of the eight children in the United States under the age of twelve who goes to bed hungry every night? Or is it that he’s just a little fussy and now you regret throwing away that banana that he didn’t want twenty minutes ago?

I return with the basket of emergency rations and begin to drag two tables together so they can sit down and eat their dinner now that I have practically saved the life of a child who, had it not been for me, would have surely expired. The group sits down and I notice that the child has taken one bite of bread and is now interested in the battery operated candle that is sitting on the table. Starvation averted! Score one for the war against hunger.

“We have a few specials tonight I can tell you about very quickly. Our soup tonight is a chilled corn soup with a cream base. The corn is grilled and it has a red pepper garnish. Our appetizer of the night is-”

“I’m sorry,” mother interrupts. “Can I go ahead and place his order for mac and cheese? He’s really hungry. But no bacon in it.””

I look down at the “really hungry” baby who is mouthing the plastic candle. Right, we don’t want that baby to eat bacon but by all means let him lick that candle that has remnants of Windex, dust and every germ known to mankind.

“I will do it right this second.” I stop pouring water for everyone and firmly set the metal pitcher on the table and leave them to again do my part to solve world hunger, one baby at a time.

“Please rush. This baby is starving,” I type on the order so that that the cooks knows how utterly important it is to get the food right away. I head to the kitchen deciding to wait there until I can return with the sustenance before doing anything else for the table. Six minutes later, the mac and cheese is ready and I go to the table.

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to finish pouring water but I know how important it is to get food to a starving baby so I stayed in the kitchen until it was ready.” I pick up the pitcher and continue pouring. “So anyway, our appetizer of the night is a roasted beet salad with goat cheese and balsamic dressing…”

Five minutes and two bites of mac and cheese later, the kid is wandering around the restaurant with its mother. Turns out he wasn’t starving after all. It was just another case of an entitled parent thinking that their child deserved special treatment because no other child in the world can be as important as their own. Snap out of it lady. If you’re fortunate enough to be able to afford to eat out at a restaurant, you’re child is not starving. He’s lucky. Most of us who are reading this are lucky.

I hate entitled parents.