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7 Obnoxious Things Servers Should Stop Doing (According to Some Basic Bitch)

make_it_stop_boy_meets_worldAbout a million years ago, I wrote a blog post called “5 Annoying Things Customers Need to Stop Doing.” It was basically the same old complaints that every server has and I just typed them out and shared them with the world. It generated a lot of comments when it came out over two years ago, but someone named Miss Mercy was tardy to the party and just now put her two cents in. Coincidentally, two cents is also what she considers a good tip. She had seven suggestions for servers to adhere to in order to stop being obnoxious and I want to evaluate them and make sure they each make sense:

  1. Don’t tell me your name. I don’t care. Most servers don’t want to give out their name and the ones who do are very often required to do so because of the restaurant they work in. If a server does tell you their name and you find it annoying, how about you just smile and move on? Don’t let a server ruin your whole dining experience because they would prefer that you ask for them by name rather than snap your fingers and yell, “hey!” If you absolutely cannot tolerate hearing four extra words (My. Name. Is. Betty.), you need to take another chill pill and climb off the nerve you are riding. Or just ignore it. That’s what I do when a customer tells me their name.
  2. Don’t go over everything that’s on the menu while I’m trying to read it. I can read. Forgive us for not realizing that you are one of the 5% of people who understand what a menu is for. Servers tend to accommodate to the lowest common denominator and many people who sit in a restaurant will ask questions that could be answered if they would read the menu. You are special, Miss Mercy. A truly special dried up twat.
  3. Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. The same thing goes for you, Miss Mercy. I get the feeling that you are one of those people who thinks that you, and you alone, are the only reason that your local Applebee’s is staying open. Your weekly order of ribs is keeping the restaurant afloat, is that it? And you probably expect people to do bend over backwards for you since you come in every week. Well listen, lady, don’t do us any favors either. You sound like a miserable person to wait on and I’m sure that if you stopped going to restaurants there would be at least one server who would notice you are gone and sing “Ding dong, the bitch is dead.”
  4. Don’t tell me stuff about your boring little life. Point taken as long as you do the same thing. How many times has the following scenario happened to a server? A customer says they don’t want cheese on their burger and the server says “okay.” However, the customer will follow that up with, “I wish I could have cheese, but it doesn’t agree with me. I love cheese and I used to eat it all the time, but now I’m lactose intolerant and get a little gassy if I have cheese or dairy. A couple of weeks ago, I ate a little bit of greek yogurt for breakfast and I spent the rest of the day sitting on the toilet, you know what I mean? So no cheese on the burger.” And then the server again says “okay” while thinking, “don’t tell me stuff about your boring little life.”
  5. You bring plates from the kitchen and take them back, hopefully in a polite and efficient manner. You don’t cook the food, you don’t design the restaurant’s interior. Why do you deserve 20%? We don’t deserve 20% unless we earn 20% and the reason we try to earn 20% is because restaurants pay us shit hourly wages, got it?
  6. Don’t ask “is everything delicious?” Okay, now you’re just being a bitch. A server is going to ask you how your food is because if he doesn’t, you will complain that no one ever checked on you and you never got to say that your breadsticks tasted stale and you will then have your reason to leave a bad tip. Is it the exact words you are offended by? Would it be better if the server said, “How is everything?” or “Is your food alright?” or “It doesn’t taste like ass, does it?”
  7. Just fuck off generally, you entitled assholes. Great, we will fuck off and you can go fuck yourself. The server is there to do a job and if you don’t want to deal with a server then you can take your ass to a fast food restaurant or a goddamn Luby’s cafeteria for a fucking LuAnne platter. Maybe eventually your wish will come true and you can place your own orders by using the kiosks on the table and your food will be delivered by a drone. Until then, you have to accept that restaurants have servers. And I must say that if anyone in a restaurant is likely to be entitled, it’s customers like you.

But thank you for the suggestions, I’ll be sure to keep those in mind.

How To Use an Umbrella To Be a Dick To Your Waiter

tumblr_lblpw0553I1qax7yao1_500What you are about to read may be hard for some people to comprehend, but it is true. It happened at my restaurant to a coworker who told his story to me. As he explained it, I knew that it must be shared with the world so that it can be known that things like this happen. I asked “Tony” to write the story himself, but the event was still too fresh and it was difficult for him to revisit the pain. Beware: what you are about to read will prove to you that some customers are complete and total dick wads who have no compassion for their fellow man.

The patio is full this evening, the late summer breeze making it a perfect night to dine al fresco. All ten tables are occupied and, despite the looming thunderclouds in the distance, everyone is happy to take advantage of the current weather. As the evening progresses, so do the clouds and before long it is clear that rain is imminent. A few tables finish up their meals and leave before the clouds open up and dump on them and a few agree to go inside now instead of having to do so in a rush when it happens. Within ten minutes, the rain begins to fall and the last remaining tables all scurry inside, shielding their baskets of french fries with their arms so they stay fresh and crispy. There is one man who is still sitting there, looking up at the heavens as if to question why the rain gods have decided to ruin his night.

He hurriedly waves Tony over to him. “Bring that umbrella over for me, I want to stay out here.”

Tony is standing in the drizzle looking at the patio umbrella that is more of a sun shield than a rain guard. He tries to explain how heavy it is to move and that perhaps it would be better if the man were to come inside, but the man insists that Tony drag the umbrella from the other side of the patio and set it up so he can eat his meal. Tony, getting more and more wet in the process, does it. (This should prove to you that Tony is much nicer than I am, because I would have told the man that he can shove the umbrella up his ass and use a butter packet for lube.) After Tony manages to get the umbrella over The Most Important Man in the World, the dick spies another umbrella, unopened, in the corner.

“Bring that one too. I don’t wanna get wet,” he tells Tony who is already wetter than pole dancer’s lady parts when she sees a fifty dollar bill in her g-string. Tony is also proving to me that he deserves sainthood for going this far and above in service.

Again, Tony does as he is asked. The cumbersome umbrella is opened and pulled to the man’s table creating a barrier between the asshole and the rain. It’s only a matter of time before the rain begins to seep through the umbrellas since they are very old and really good at making shade but that’s about it. By this point, Tony is completely drenched. The man continues to eat his meal and never once says “thank you” to him. Tony retreats to the restaurant and looks out the window at the man who is sitting in the rain but is dryer than the chicken I had for my shift meal. He never says “thank you” and he only leaves a10% tip.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is just one of the ways that customers can take advantage of their servers: they can be rude and ask us to do things that are above and beyond the expectations of normal service and then not give us any thanks, either verbally or monetarily. These are the events that can make a good man turn bad or a decent waiter into a bitchy one.

No Server Wants This Type of Note Instead of a Tip

10958398_665722020204495_253805023_nSince this blog is basically the same ten topics written in different ways over and over again, let’s again discuss the annoying trend of people leaving little notes to their servers explaining why they cannot leave a tip. First off, we don’t want your stupid fucking notes. I don’t care how good your penmanship is and I don’t care what you are writing, unless the note is on a personal check made out to me, don’t waste your time.

The photo we have here today was sent to me by a waitress who had the misfortune of serving someone who was on a budget. When it came time to pay the check, Ms. Penny Pincher pulled out just enough dollars from her ham wallet to cover the bill, but when it came time to leave a tip, that’s where the budget ran dry. Despite the excellent service, this customer thinks that a sweet little note will take the place of cash money. We care not that the note was crafted upon the finest paper in all the land that was pressed from organic cottonwood trees that only bloom once every ten years. It does not matter to us that the ink from the pen came from India and was made by a 99-year old, blind ink curator who sells his wares in front of his hut made of clay. We are not impressed if you took a calligraphy class and your note looks as fancy as an invitation to a royal fucking wedding. We want money for tips.

Another thing we do not want is excuses. If you’re on a budget, then maybe you should not be eating at a restaurant because when you go out to eat, you need to factor in the tip as part of the cost, especially if the service is excellent. Don’t throw us any bullshit excuses about having rent due, because newsflash: so does the server! Don’t tell us that you’re pregnant and that need to save your money and don’t tell us that you ran out of cash. Just pony up a tip and let us turn the table over so we can continue on with our job of serving.

Finally, if you are going to leave a note that says you can’t afford to tip, you probably will want to leave off the part about how you will be back. The server does not want you to come back. In fact, if you do come back and the server sees you, that server will tell whoever ends up waiting on you to not waste their time. You will get the bare bones of service and nothing else. You see, when a server knows they aren’t going to get a tip, you are going to receive $2.13 and hour worth of service and, like the hourly wage, it ain’t much: your glass will be filled, your order will be taken, your food will be dropped and then you will get your check. Boom. That is what you get for no tip. Also, when you leave a big “thank you” at the bottom of the no-tip note, it comes across as insincere.

If you know that you are not going to leave a tip when you come into a restaurant, why don’t you just let the server know that when you sit down? Oh, I know why: because you’re a cheap ass coward. You know that telling the server beforehand is going to affect your service which means that you know you should be leaving a tip.

Bottom line: if you can’t afford to leave a tip when the service is good, you can’t afford to be eating out in a restaurant. Keep your notes to yourself and cough up a tip, asshole.

The Truth About Waiting On Old People

Old people got no reason...

Old people got no reason…

Now you know I loves me some old people, because I am practically one myself, but some old people are able to crawl right up my asshole and stay there until they have chewed the last nerve off of my prostate and that is exactly what happened last week at work. (You can click here if you want to hear me sing my feelings about these old people…) I have some regulars who come in every couple of weeks. They seem to have been married for decades and decades and they are really old. Like, it would not surprise me to learn that he proposed by hitting her over the head with a club and then dragging her by the hair back to a hole in the ground. Their wedding photo is probably on the wall of a cave somewhere and they registered at Bed, Bath and Brontosaurus. They are old.

Every time they come in, they ask for bread as soon as they drop their creaky asses onto the chair. They always tell me they don’t need bread plates and refuse to let me put them on the table. The thing is though, they do need bread plates. They are the messiest eaters I have ever seen and if my boss would let me tie bibs around their neck, I would. I’d tie them tight too, like asphyxiation tight. But no bread plates for them and I watch them eat the bread like a couple of cartoon beavers chopping down tress for a dam, crumbs flying in all directions and landing everywhere except their mouths. When they leave, it usually looks like a sawmill just took a dump on the floor. This time, I was ready for them. I had the bread basket and two plates ready when they made their way, very slowly, to the table. I placed the bread in front of them and the woman said, “Take that away so we don’t eat it.” It’s almost like she said she didn’t want it just so she would have something to complain about.

They always need everything with no salt and no oil or butter but every time I place the food, the first thing they ask for is a salt shaker. One time she complained that the sautéed spinach was dry and had no flavor. Ummm, there’s no salt, oil or butter, lady. If there is no such thing as Shaken Old People Syndrome, I am about to create it. The two fossils order food to share which is fine with me, but when the man orders a decaf and I see both of them drinking it and asking for refills, I want to put an ear worm in his hearing aid. And, yes, for the third time, it is decaf.

The woman drinks so much water that I have to fill her glass every time I walk by the table. It’s like she’s a camel stocking up for a three-day trip through the Sahara desert on her way to an oasis full of non-salted spinach and oil-free food. In her attempt to be helpful, she hands me the glass each time rather than let me pour the water as it sits on the table. It’s sweet of her, but the glass is covered in grease and crumbs. It’s slippery and I don’t know where the oil is coming from since I didn’t serve her any. I can only assume that she secretes some type of old-people juice that comes from her fingers and ends up on her glass, consequently getting on me. I don’t need your old-people juice, ma’am.

When they are finished, the floor is a blanket of food with at least one fork, spoon or knife. The table is covered in sauces, balled up napkins, crumbs and the occasional toothpick. They always tell me they are in a hurry for the check, but based on how slowly they move, they do not know the meaning of the word “hurry.” Besides that, I can’t imagine what they could possibly be in a hurry for. Trying to outrun the grim reaper? My money’s on the reaper. The tip is always about 12%.

“We’ll see you next time,” they say.

“Only if you get cataract surgery, “ I think.

I smile. I am never anything but kind to them and I save my true thoughts for this blog. Off they go, into the night, back to their home that is probably a sea of leftover bread crusts and used hearing aid batteries.

“Have a good night,” I say. “See you next time.”

How Can Applebee’s Do This To Melly?

Screen Shot 2015-08-18 at 12.13.04 PMWe all need to take a moment out of our very busy day to acknowledge the trying times that Melly is going through. As I was scanning the Applebee’s Facebook page trying to find something that would inspire me to write yet another stupid blog post, I came across Melly’s comment and it stopped me in my tracks. All of us have experienced difficulty in our lives, but Melly’s ordeal is unlike any I have ever heard of. We must organize a prayer circle for her immediately and send out the most positive of vibes as she tries to make sense of this world she now lives in: Applebee’s no longer has potatoe skins or chicken sizzleing fajitas!

(click here for an audible reaction)

What the fuck is wrong with you, Applebee’s? You can have beef sizzleing fajitas, but not chicken sizzleing fajitas? That makes absolutely no sense! How are people like Melly supposed to wrap their head around that decision? It was bad enough when you yanked potatoe skins off the menu, prying them from Melly’s hands like they were one of Meryl Streep’s babies in Sophie’s Choice. Melly was able to still manage to get to Applebee’s at least three times a month, but with this whole chicken sizzleing fajitas debacle, you have gone too far! You have pushed Melly down the plank and she has been forced to jump off it and land at TGIFriday’s. The shame, Applebee’s, the shame!

Here is what you must do to win Melly back: bring back these menu items and do it now. In fact, you should create a new menu item called Melly’s Sizzleing Chicken Potoatoe Skins Fajitas and just to sweeten the pot, you should add some of your Applebee’s Riblets in there too. And instead of tortillas, you should serve them in a waffle cone drizzled with chocolate syrup and topped with whipped cream, but not fresh whipped cream, just the kind from a can. And you should let Melly eat these for free, not just three times a month, but three times a week! What other option do you have, Applebee’s? Do you honestly want her to go to TGIFriday’s and gorge herself on Endless Apps? No! No. You. Don’t.

Melly, I am here for you. I hope that my plea to the God’s of Applebee’s hear my prayers and resolve this issue for you. You deserve more than this crass treatment from a restaurant that you love so much. In the meantime, you are in my thoughts. I only wish I was with you to give you hug and to wrap you up in a piece of leaf lettuce and call you My Lil’ Potsticker. Be strong, Melly. Be strong.

First you take potatoe skins off the menu….. Now you take off the chicken sizzleing fajitas… You have beef sizzleing…

Posted by Melly Sacco on Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Lady at Table 56 Wants A (Splenda) Rim Job

lemondrop-martini72I am all for taking in fewer calories. It’s not easy to maintain a slim figure when one is surrounded by fried foods and carbs at the job all day. For this reason, I always choose to have Baked Lays potato chips instead of the good ones and I always only eat half of the donut and then blend the other half into a protein shake. It’s little things like that that keep me trim and fit. I suppose every bit counts but sometimes customers will try anything if they think it will save them from having to spend any time on the elliptical machine.

Last night at work someone ordered a Lemon Drop Martini. I too am a sucker for a Lemon Drop Martini. Truth be told, I am a sucker for anything with the word “martini” in it. If someone created the Spinach and Kale martini, I might finally figure out a way to enjoy vegetable servings. A Lemon Drop is made with citrus vodka, triple sec, lemon juice and served with a sugar rim. It can be all kinds of deliciousness if it’s done right.

“Can you make a Lemon Drop Martini for me?” the lady asks.

“Yes ma’am. Would you like a sugar rim?”

It always comes with a sugar rim, but I get a kick out of asking people if they’d like it. It makes me think of Sheena Easton’s song “Sugar Walls.”  When I was a kid, I never understood what a sugar wall was but now I am pretty sure she was referring to the sweetness of her vaginal cavity. When you mix in the word “rim” it just paints a real pretty picture, doesn’t it?

The woman pauses a moment as she ponders the idea of rimming with sugar. And then, “I’m trying to watch the calories. Can you do a Splenda rim instead?”

“Of course, ma’am. The bartender would be pleased to rim you with Splenda.”

Is she for serious? If you’re trying to cut down on the calories, maybe you shouldn’t be ordering a Lemon Drop Martini in the first place. I looked up the calorie count for a Lemon Drop and it ain’t the sugar rim that’s the problem.

Two ounces of Grey Goose Citron Vodka is 206 calories.
One ounce of Triple Sec has about 125 calories
Fresh lemon juice is calorie free.
One teaspoon of sugar (if you actually used that much for the rim job) is 16 calories.
The total calories for this cocktail is 347.

If she switches to one teaspoon of Splenda (4 calories) for her grainy sweet sugar rim job, she will be saving 12 calories which she already used up when she sucked that bowl of hummus clean and then polished off the cracker crumbs by licking her finger and pressing it against the plate to get every last bit of food.

“Oh, he can give me a Splenda rim?”

“Oh, he can give you a Splenda rim, alright. He’s a pro at rimming. He loves to rim. The sweeter the rim the better. Sugar, Splenda, Sweet’n Low. If he can rim it, he will.”

“That’ll be great! I’d love a Splenda rim!”

She looked relieved like she had just figured out a way to avoid the gym the next day. The bartender gave her the rim job she wanted and it was so delicious and so healthy that she ordered a second one, making for a total of 670 calories for her two drinks. No word on how many calories were in that Red Velvet Cake she split with her friend.

People, don’t pretend that you are on a diet and then drink cocktails. It makes no sense. And if you ask for something as ridiculous as a Splenda rim, chances are good that your waiter is going to make fun of you behind your back fat and maybe even possibly write a blog post about it.