You know, I don’t give a shit who pays for the fucking check. It does not matter to me (or any other waiter) who paid last, who owes whom, who’s turn it is to treat, who’s birthday it is or who makes more money. We just want you to pay the damn check and get out so we can start talking about you. Nothing is more irritating than listening to two old ladies argue over who will pay for the two soups that weren’t hot enough and the two hot teas that weren’t Lipton. Just split it or give me two credit cards and shut up.
It happens all the time. Someone asks for the check and then the other person has to say “Oh no, you don’t! I’m paying.” “No I’m paying'” “No I am…” and so on and so forth. Or what really cracks my shit up is when one person says they are going to the bathroom and then sneaks over to me in the sidestand to interrupt my mimosa drinking to slip me a credit card. And then ten minutes later the other person does the same thing because they both want to be the big shot and be the one who pays. I always ask who is going to tip better. I have seen people get seriously upset about the whole stupid thing. A few years ago two men were both grabbing for the check to pay for it and prove who had the biggest penis when they got too into it. They were grabbing and pushing and eventually tilted the table and knocked over a few glasses that fell and shattered. Now who do you think had to clean that shit up? I just grabbed the check and said “DECIDE!” Now when two people argue about it I have a system. The first credit card that touches my hand is the one who pays. No exceptions whatsoever. A man once gave me his card and then the lady was saying “No, wait I have to pay because it’s his birthday. Wait wait! Take my credit card.” She continued whining as I swiped his card and made the man pay for his own birthday dinner. When I came back to the table I told them my rule as she shot me a look of hatred. I shot it right back to her and as I handed the check to the man, I smiled and said “happy birthday.”
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. CLICK HERE IF YOU LIKE THIS BLOG
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. CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
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. CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
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. CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
Have you ever been in a restaurant enjoying the company of good friends and savoring the taste of food that was made just for you when you are suddenly overcome with a rancid odor? An odor that surely came from the depths of hell where the devil lives in a palace of rotten boiled eggs, cabbage and asparagus. If it seemed to come out of nowhere and then fade away just as quickly, there is a very good chance that your server just farted at your table. Every server has done it but few will admit to it. I freely admit that I will fart at any table that gets on my nerves. So basically what I am saying is that I fart at every table I serve. All of them. I had about 40 tables today so I farted at least 80 times because I always do it at least twice for each check. Some may call it passive aggressive while others will call it immature but really it’s just a basic human function when a reflex expels intestinal gas through the anus so get the fuck over it. If a table is being a supreme asshole than waiters will do what is known as a “Hippopotamus Fart”. This is when all the servers at one time manage to get near the asshole’s table and let one at the same time and then walk away. So the next time you smell that familiar funkity funk, don’t blame it on the gruyere cheese that came on your Croque Madame. Blame it on yourself, because you probably pissed off your waiter and were paid back with a good old-fashioned Hippopotamus Fart. CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG