Category Archives: Holly Hobbie

Thou Shall Not Blog (Just Kidding)

You may recall that I was hoping to start a new job soon. Well, I did a few of weeks ago and I am being very careful about blogging because we certainly don’t need a repeat of my last firing situation. That place was a cluster fuck and by the way, after I was fired, I received a mass email to the staff saying that their new policy was that no one was allowed to Facebook, Tweet or blog about the people or events at the restaurant. To all those people I worked with at that shit show: you’re welcome. And Holly Hobbie, if you’re reading this, you really did need to pull that stick out of your ass. Anyhoo, I did start a new job but I am not going to say exactly when I started and I will be very vague about specifics. In other words, if Katy Perry comes in to the new job, I will not be talking about her specifically. It would be something like ” a pop star who kissed a girl and she liked it.” That way no one would know who I was talking about.

At my new job, things are so far so good. When I was given my rules and guidelines the first thing I did was see if there was a specific bylaw about blogging. I saw this:

Employees wanting to share their own personal opinions on the Internet are not allowed to do so while using company computers.

Score! So as long as I used my own computer, I could write whatever I wanted to write. Joy! Rapture! Celebration! Fireworks! But then I saw this:

Speaking, publishing or submitting by either electronic or printed means statements that are untrue, malicious or confidential about the company, its guests, co-workers or managers is prohibited.

Ouch. So there it is. How to get around that? So as long as they are true (Holly Hobbie really was a bitch) and not malicious (I think of the things I said about Lispy Gay Manager to be more constructive than malicious) and not confidential (it was no secret that restaurant was bat shit crazy despite the accolades being heaped upon it.) I can write what I want. The trick is to do it in a way that people I work with won’t recognize their own work situation, in the off chance that one of the 25 people who read this blog is at my new job with me. I have made a list of rules for myself to follow that hopefully will keep me from getting fired if they hear that I am the Bitchy Waiter:

  • I will not tell one single soul I work with that I blog.
  • I will not friend any of them on Facebook and simply say I don’t use it.
  • When something blogworthy happens (and it will) I will not write about it for two weeks so it can be erased from the cache of co-workers memories.
  • If someone is holding up a picture of me in the New York Post, I will light myself on fire in order to turn attention away from the photo.
  • When the restaurants starts to get a lot of press, I will not allow myself to link my blog to every single article, even though it will be very tempting and so easy to do.
  • I will come up with new code names for managers and co-workers and they will all be based on television characters from the 1970’s and 80’s. (I can’t wait to write my first post about Mrs. Garret from The Facts of Life.)
  • If something too good to be true happens and one or all of these rules must be forsaken, so be it.

Wish me luck…

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Christmas is Over

Between it being Christmas, this crazy fucked up blizzard and my sheer and utter laziness, I have not written for a couple of days. Hopefully, you are all getting over your Christmas/Kwanzaa/Solstice/Hanukkah bloat and are ready to focus on the task at hand: Bitchy Waiter. I must share with you my Christmas Eve meal because it was kinda amazing. I went to a place called Kittichai for your typical holiday meal of modern Thai cuisine and lots and lots of cocktails. Loved. It.

Starting at the bar, I was overwhelmed with options for my starter drink. They all looked so good. I laughed to the bartender, “Can I just have a taste of every single one?” The bartender clearly had no sense of humor because he just rolled his eyes and said no. Or maybe he did have a sense of humor but was in an understandably shitty mood since it was 8:00 PM on Christmas Eve and he has to make cocktails for an alcoholic bitch like me. I meant to write down the name of every drink but I assured myself I would remember the name and all the ingredients in them as well. Fail. My first was called something like a chili citrus martini and it made my face melt off with deliciousness. I do recall that it had Citrus Vodka, Limoncello and hot peppers muddled in it. It was so freaking good. After the first sip, I thought it was too spicy, but after sip number three it was just right and after sip number ten I was just said that it was gone. Go there. Order it. Tell them The Bitchy Waiter sent you. They won’t know what the fuck you are talking about, but say it anyway.

At this point, the table was ready and I ordered cocktail number two. Again, I forgot what it was called and even what was in it. Vodka, I know that. Cocktail number three was called Thom and was citrus vodka with fresh mint. Again, it was perfection. Of course at this point they could have served me leftover dog drool with a garnish and I would have been happy. The food was divine as well. Crispy rock shrimp and coconut chicken in lettuce wraps gave me a Thai boner as my apps and for dinner I took a virtual bath in the green curry. Dessert was the flourless chocolate cake. I felt like I climaxed. And swallowed.

The service was top notch. After my days at The Place that Shall Not Be Named, I see how the inner workings of fine dining go. When I got up to go to the men’s room, I watched as a backwaiter rushed to my table to refold my napkin. After the entree, someone glided over to crumb the table. Our order was taken by a manager who seemed like an Asian Ana Gasteyer and was eager to share her extensive menu knowledge. She was friendly and attentive but I couldn’t help but wonder if she had a little bit of Holly Hobbie going on.

At the end of the night, my stomach was as full as my wallet was empty. But it didn’t matter. This was my Christmas present. I bestowed fat tips on my server, the coat check girl and the front bartender. I was content. The meal was perfect and I had not one single solitary thing to bitch about. A true Christmas miracle indeed.

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I Have Been Fired

A couple of weeks ago, there was some drama here when someone named Penelope threatened to out this blog to my managers and get me fired. Why Penelope would want to have me fired is beyond me because all I ever wrote about was the ineptitude of some of the protocol at the new job and then some heightened reality about a couple of specific managers. Sure, I said that Holly Hobbie had a lemon up her ass, but does that mean she actually had a lemon up her ass? Doubtful. It’s called fiction. And yes, the way the tip pool works is really crappy for me and I do think the system should have been explained to me before I was hired; certainly before two weeks into my employment. I could have saved us all a lot of time if that would have been told to me at the beginning. Here’s is what Penelope wrote:

There is no need to forward your resignation letter on to me; I know exactly who you are. Yes, we work together. You gave away so many details it was easy to look at the schedule and figure out exactly who you are.

Things to know about our POOLED house. There will be nights and sections where you do not make $500 but you too will still reap the benefits of MY TIPS. I highly doubt you earned all of this $500, I am guessing a large amount of this revenue came from transfers.

You have a bad attitude and you are not all that as a server.

I think it would be best that you move on because I am going to expose you and that could be uncomfortable for you.

As it turns out, Penelope was a hoax. Yes, I was “let go” but it had nothing to do with The Bitchy Waiter. After my probationary period, it was determined that they did not want to work around my schedule since I have another job. True, I had a very specific time that I could work and I totally understand why they don’t want to deal with that. (Even though I told them at my first interview…) I was no longer needed due to “scheduling issues” but the blog was never mentioned, proving that Penelope was just trying to fuck with me. Good job, Penelope, because I was a bit concerned. Way to go, you silly prankster, you. Good job! I pretty much knew that she didn’t know what she was talking about when she said I “have bad attitude” and I’m “not all that as a server.” No one at the new job had any reason to think I had a bad attitude because I didn’t. I was new. You really think I am going to show my crappy side within day two at a new job. No. And I know I am all that as a server. I had several tables tell me so during my short tenure there. In fact, on my first day out of training, someone told they had eaten there six times in the last four months and I was the best server they had ever had there, by far. I did some Google research about the service at that restaurant (which will remain unnamed) and it is the one thing that people are consistently disappointed with. The turnover is high meaning the level of service is never where it should be. Maybe if they kept me, it could have gotten better.

But I was fired. Or let go. It was huge blessing for me, because I was not happy there. However, if I quit, I would not be eligible for unemployment. Seeing that they let me go for their own reasons and not because I did something wrong (like anonymously discuss a place I work while never mentioning the name of the restaurant or the name of anyone I worked with), I simply reopen my unemployment claim and find the next job. A job that won’t mind working around a schedule. Au revoir, “new job.” It was fun. Actually, it wasn’t fun. At all. That place gave me the shivers every time I walked into it.

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I Wish It was a Smoothie

I saw something happen at work yesterday that both entertained me and horrified me at the same time. No, Holly Hobbie did not finally release the lemon that has been stuck up her ass. In fact, I think the lemon has been joined by citrus friends orange, pineapple and grapefruit along with a bottle of Cabernet. Bitch has a fucking sangria party happening up in her poop chute. I was standing near my station when I saw a woman rushing to the bathroom. She had a white creamy liquid dripping off her face and hands and her blouse was also covered with it. Next I saw a waitress following her with a linen napkin held out in front of her that was also dripping the same questionable substance. “Hmmm,” I thought. “Did Lispy Gay Manager just have a party with his friends?” I looked in the direction from whence they came and saw some back waiters mopping the floor and people milling about. I then figured that someone had dropped one of the delicious organic and overpriced smoothies and it splattered all over the poor lady sitting nearby. Sucks to have smoothie all over you, right? If only it was smoothie.

When the waitress came out of the bathroom of course I got my nosy ass all up in her face and asked her what happened. “Oh nothing. This lady just threw up, that’s all.” That’s all? Hello no, that’s not all. I want details. Did the food make her puke? Did Linda Evans say hello and the very sight of the double face piercing make this woman projectile vomit? Did she get a whiff of Lispy Gay’s cologne? The waitress told me that the lady was pregnant and simply threw up. My next question was this: “And did you clean it up with that napkin?” Had it been me, and I saw a lady throw up in my station, she would have been up vomit creek without a barf bag, because my ass ain’t helping with that shit. If I helped, then there’d be two people tossing their cookies up in there. The waitress went on to explain that she was the oldest of about a dozen children and she grew up around pregnant women so she saw what was about to happen. “So I grabbed a napkin and tried to catch it.” That’s right, this Wonder Waitress caught the vomit. It was at this point I noticed there was a chunk of leftover vomit on her right shoulder. After it was pointed out to her, she laughed and went to the sink and rinsed it off with a wet paper towel. I resisted the urge to gag.

I never did see the lady come out of the bathroom. I presume she exited through the window because she was so completely ashamed about puking all over herself while a waitress tried to catch it in a fucking dinner napkin. She must have slunk her pregnant ass home and prescribed bed rest for her remaining pregnancy. Maybe after the baby is born she will be able to put this episode behind her. They say that all the pain of child birth is forgotten once you lay eyes on your new baby. Hopefully, this too will be erased from her memory. If only it could be erased from mine.

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Katy Perry Likes Mashed Potatoes

Maybe you have heard that I have a new job and that it sucks big hairy donkey balls that have been shaved with a rusty razor. The restaurant is well-known and celebrities seem to flock to the place. In my short week there, I have seen famous chef Wolfgang Puck, famous lesbian finance guru Suze Orman and world renown pop star Katy Perry. I served Katy Perry on my first day out of training. As if your first day out of training isn’t stressful enough, I have to have the managers breathing down my neck to make sure I cater to the every whim of Katy Perry. As it turns out, she was polite, friendly, sweet, down to earth, kind and patient. All the things that my managers are not.

When she sat down with her circle of five friends, I decided I would treat her just like I do every other person in my station: like a person. Because that’s what she is. A person. Who eats food. The table ordered and then Katy (I call her Katy, because we’re close like that.) asked if we had mashed potatoes. “Um, I know we do for dinner, but I have feeling that we won’t have them this early in the day. Lemme check and I’ll let you know, okay?” I went up to manager Holly Hobbie and another manager who I have not written about yet (long story short: she’s a bitch too.) “I have a table that wants mashed potatoes. Do we have those for lunch?” “No,” said Holly Hobbie. “Oh, okay, because Katy Perry was asking-” Other Manager interrupted me. “Oh, is it for Katy Perry? Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes? I will go ask the kitchen if they can make mashed potatoes for Katy Perry since Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes.” She zoomed off as if the world’s very existence was at stake. Holly Hobbie let her glasses slide down her nose and said, “In the future? You should always say? Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes.” (I don’t know why so many of these managers say everything as a question, but they do.) Got it. So the next time anyone at lunch asks for mashed potatoes, I should say Katy Perry wants mashed potatoes. Other Manager came back from the kitchen looking like she had just had her stomach punched, completely defeated. “We don’t have any mashed potatoes. You’ll have to tell Katy Perry we don’t have them. I tried, but the chef just doesn’t have them. We would try to do it for Katy Perry if we could. Now if Joe Schmo wanted potatoes then…” I finished her sentence for her. “No potato for Joe Schmo!” I laughed and turned to walk back to my station. Other Manager called at me to return. With dead seriousness she said, “I’m serious. No mashed potatoes for Joe Schmo.” Wow, she was for real.

I went back to my dear personal friend Katy to break the bad news to her. “Yeah, just as I suspected we only have mashed potatoes at dinner and they’re just not ready yet.” And how do you think Miss Katy Perry responded? Like a normal person, she said, “Oh, okay. That’s totally cool. Just fries then.” I always thought I liked that Katy Perry chick and now I know for sure. She’s cool. I want to send her a big tub of mashed potatoes from KFC just to say thank you for being a friend.

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