I Literally Work With a Baby

What a fucking baby.

I arrive to work for my normal Thursday open to close shift, getting there at 4:00 and preparing myself to stay until we close at 11:00. I am the only server on Thursdays and I split the tips with the sole bartender. It’s a good system and I have no need of a food runner or busser. As I am mopping the floor (more like dragging a damp mop around the restaurant…), I see a kid knocking on the door of the restaurant. I assume he is selling candy bars for his basketball team and I do the same thing to him that I do to customers who want a fourth glass of water, which is pretend I don’t see them. He continues to knock and I think, “Damn, this kid really wants to sell some candy.” I ask our cook Juan if he recognizes the boy at the door and what Juan tells me chills my heart:

“Oh, that’s the new bus boy.”

Wait, what? Bus boy? When did this happen? Why do we need a bus boy and more importantly, how much do I have to tip him out?

I reluctantly go to unlock the door and he rushes in apologizing for being late. “I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t get out of school until 3:30 and I had to run home to change before I came to work.” With that, he zooms down to the basement to deposit his bag and begin work. When he comes back upstairs with his apron tied around his waist, he sees that I have already “mopped” the floor, something I have done every Thursday for months upon months.

“Oh, you already swept the floor and mopped? I’m sorry.”

Now, I’m not only pissed that I am going to have to share my tips, I am also pissed that I did something that I didn’t have to do. I go to find the manager.

“What’s up with the kid? We have a busser now?”

“Yeah, he’s training. Now that spring is here and we are about to open the patio, you’re gonna need some help. He’s 17 years old, so be nice to him.”

Seventeen. He is even younger than I thought he was. My mind is spinning as I think of how many things I own that are older than this bus boy; certain pieces of furniture, photo albums, my Birkenstocks, the t-shirt that I sleep in… I am depressed. I am old enough to be his father and quite possibly older than his parents are. I am going to have to share my tips with someone who is younger than certain bottles of scotch. He told me his name, but I filed it into the same part of my brain that stores the list of our bottled beers, so unless he writes his name down on the menu, I will never recall it.

When our shift meal is presented to us, I get my plate and head back to my usual spot ay Table 16. Like a puppy, he follows me and when he gets too close to my table, I look at him and gnash my teeth like an old poodle who doesn’t want to share his food. He obediently sits down at Table 15.

“Where did you go to school?” he asks me.

In between taking photos of my ugly shift meal for Instagram, I answer him.

“High school? It was in Texas so I’m sure you don’t know it. And I went to college at Hunter.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of Hunter!” he says excitedly. “I love school. Today we learned all about colors and shapes. And my teacher, Miss Stephanie, sang a song to us about the rainbow.”

I snap another picture of my shift meal and concentrate on which filter I should use.

“This one time? At lunch? This kid was throwing his food up and then catching it. Well, not throwing it up like vomiting, I mean throwing it with his hands into the air. It was so funny. But then Miss Stephanie told him to stop it. Then it was nap time.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, I know my A,B,C’s, you wanna hear ’em? And I can jump high in the air too. Watch this!”

I look up from my phone and he is leaping off the booth and onto the floor. He does it three times and after the last time, he falls to the ground laughing.

“Man, I felt like Superman! But I like Batman better, don’t you? I mean he lives in a cave! I wanna live in a cave. But my mommy says we can’t live in a cave because Batman isn’t for real life.”

He continues his incessant babbling until he abruptly stops. His eyes widen and his mouth forms a pouty little frown. It looks like he is about to cry.

“Uh oh,” he says. “I think I just went wee wee in my Underoos.”

Finally, he has said something that interest me.

“I used to love Underoos. I didn’t even know they made them anymore, that’s awesome.”

He is not listening. Tears are streaming down his face and he is trying to call his mother on his cell phone, but his phone is one of these:



My point is: the new bus boy is a child! I work with a child.


How To Get Drunk on $25

This could be you!

Get ready to pick up your jaws off the floor because I am about to promote someone other than myself for a change. If your jaw does drop to the floor, don’t fret too much about it because I just mopped the floor a couple of weeks ago and I’m sure it’s still pretty clean.

On Sunday, May 3, I will be attending a fundraiser for this chick named Terri Girvin who is producing her own one-woman show about bartending called Last Call. Tickets to the fundraiser are $25, BUT once you get in it’s an open bar with beer, wine, whiskey and gin so I know you drunk bitches can get your money’s worth in about thirty minutes. All the other drinks will at happy hour prices.

Come get drunk with me!

Because I am such a fucking giver, I will be performing at the fundraiser by reading a story from my upcoming book. There are other performers too, including Katharine Heller from Tell the Bartender podcast and Kendra Cunningham from Last Comic Standing. But let’s be honest: you’re coming for the cheap drinks.

Come get drunk with me!

There are also raffle prizes that night, but again, let’s be honest: you want the open bar.

I hope you will think about coming. For $25, you can get drink your ass off, see some entertainment and come insult me right to my face. It does not get any better. And on top of that, you will be supporting the arts by helping to fund a show about our own industry.


Sunday, May 3 6:00-9:00
@ The Magician 118 Rivington St.
New York, NY 10002

Tickets are here.
The Facebook event is here. (Go to it and tell me you’re going!)

The video of the clip is pretty awesome:


She Tried To Scam a Restaurant But Failed

Shatanya Arielette Beasley

Shatanya Arielette Beasley

In today’s episode of “I’m Too Cheap to Pay For My Meal,” we have a woman named Shatanya Arielette Beasley who went all out to avoid paying the check at her local Applebee’s. According to reports, after Shatanya enjoyed her double crunch bone-in wings, double-glazed baby back ribs, and some salted caramel pretzel bites (all with a glass of water with extra lemons, no doubt) the server presented her with the check. When Shatanya looked into her purse and saw nothing but a pack of gum, her car keys, leftover Hershey Kisses wrappers and some old receipts from Piggly Wiggly, she knew she had to come up with a plan. Lucky for her, she had one. In the side pocket of her purse where most people will keep things like their wallet or an emergency ten-dollar bill, Shatanya had a bag of dead crickets. She ever so stealthily pulled one out and placed it on the last remaining bite of one of her salted caramel pretzel bites and began her acting career.

(I was not there, so the following is a dramatic interpretation imagined in my tequila-soaked brain.)

Shatanya: Awww, hell no! Where is my waitress? Where IS my waitress? Why on God’s green earth would she serve me this food with a dead cricket in it? And why did I not notice this until I had eaten everything else that was brought to me? Is it not possible that I ate several dead crickets without noticing while I enjoyed my wings and ribs? Or worse even, maybe I ate a roach! I am perfectly willing to eat ribs from Applebee’s but I must draw the line at crickets. Security! Security! I refuse to pay for this. Manager! I am not paying for food littered with the carcasses of crickets that once chirped happily in the meadow and now lie dead in a pool of salted caramel. I must go, for I am too upset and disgusted by this event. Good bye, Applebee’s! And to my waitress, I am sorry that I cannot tip you, but I am too shocked to do so. Ordinarily, I would tip 30-40%, but not today. Blame it on the DEAD CRICKET YOU SERVED ME!!!

And with that, Shatanya dramatically left the restaurant, but not before the restaurant manager glanced into her purse (a knock off Michael Kors) and spotted the Ziplock baggie of dead crickets. As Shatanya sashayed her way out the door, the observant manager watched her get into her car and quickly jotted down the license plate number.

Police tracked her ass down and she was arrested and charged with obtaining property under false pretense. Shatanya paid her $2,500 bond with some Monopoly money and hopped back over to Applebee’s to pay for her meal and the charges will likely be dropped.

Again, I wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure when she went back to pay, it went something like this.

Shatanya: Ohh, I’m so sorry. I forgot to pay for my food the other day and I think I accidentally tried to pay for it with a dead cricket. I don’t what I was thinking! Sometimes I look at a dead cricket and I think, “Now is that a dead cricket or is that my debit card. Girl, I do not know.” Anyways, I’m so embarrassed, but we’re good now, right? And by the way, can I get an Apple Chimicheesecake to go? I can pay for it now. Do you take MasterCard or Discover? Because if you don’t, I just have to run to my car real quick and get my bag of dead roaches.

Oh, people. Just pay for your damn food. If you can’t afford to go out to eat, just don’t go. And make sure if you do go, you can afford to leave a tip too!


A Comment on Comments, the Crazy Bitch Edition

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

Having been on vacation for a while and being up to my bloodshot eyeballs in writing my book (it comes out Spring of 2016, so start saving your pennies, because I need everyone to buy a copy), I have not had time to write a new blog post. Today, I have found the time and the inspiration. The time comes from me avoiding other responsibilities like laundry and bathing but the inspiration comes from someone named Raven who sharted out about 15 comments on a blog post, each comment covered in more dingleberries than the one before it. In a blog post called “Why Waiters Say and Do What They Say and Do,” I did my best to explain the reasoning behind so many of the things we do at our jobs. Raven was having none of it. She felt the need to comment about everything and now I feel that same need in this Comment on Comments post.

Raven said: TAP WATER WTF???!? It is NEVER okay to give someone fucking TAP water, unless you specifically inform them that that’s the kind of water you use at your restaurant, first. No one is interested in being poisoned without first agreeing to it!! When you order water at a restaurant, you are of course expecting for the water to come from the drink fountain, so you know it’s not tap. Are you telling me that restaurants have been poisoning me with fluoride and now for the rest of my life I have to specifically ensure that they are using water instead of poisoned water??!? But even McDonald’s does not use tap water! Why the hell wouldn’t you specifically make sure the customers know if they will be being given tap water when they think it has been filtered?!

Raven, I think most restaurants are using tap water, so chill your tits, bitch. While I agree with you that most people are not interested in being poisoned, I find it highly unlikely that you will find anyone who agrees to it.

“Good evening, ma’am. Would you mind if I sprinkle cyanide on your salad this evening?”

“Well, ordinarily, I’d say no, but since you are asking me first and giving me the chance to agree to it, yes I would love it. Extra cyanide, please. And can i have fresh ground pepper as well?”

I wonder what water fountains Raven has been using that produce magically filtered water? If a server brings you a glass of water that you did not ask for, you can bet your ass that it came from the dreaded TAP. I’ve never worked at McDonald’s (thank God for small miracles) but I bet they use tap water too. I guess Raven has been poisoned with fluoride her whole life and despite the fact that she may have fewer cavities in her chewing bones, she is not happy about it. She’d rather have rotted teeth covered in decay than be given water that she did not ask for. Raven, pull that Evian bottle out of you ass, fill it up with air and choke on it.


Actually, Raven, placing a check on the table of the customer who is going to pay it, is far from random. It’s very specific. Random would be if I just reached into my apron and pulled out any check and then gave it to any person not caring whose check it was. You can leave whenever the fuck you want and we can give you the check whenever the fuck we want. That’s how business works. It’s a two-way street, bitch, so why don’t you go sit in it and finish your three dollar drink before a truck runs over your ass?


I’m pretty******SURE****** as fuck that you don’t leave any tip ever.

And she had even more to say: …And due to this article, I WILL complain LOUDLY to a manager the next time some idiot waiter puts a fucking bill on my table when I HAVE NOT ASKED FOR ONE AND THEY DONT KNOW IF I’M FUCKING DONE YET. And then I will stay at that table as long as humanly possible, maybe until the restaurant closes if I’m not busy that day, and make sure to complain as loud as possible and swear a lot at kids and explain exactly why the fuck i have a right to eat and order whatever the fuck I want after I have already paid exorbitant prices for it, doing it this way in order to cause other customers to leave or not want to come back. You don’t get to fucking dictate when I am finished eating and/or ordering things.

Raven, get a fucking life. What you’re saying is that you are willing to sit in a restaurant for an entire day (providing you aren’t busy that day, and why would you be? It is abundantly clear that you have all the time in the world to leave comments on a blog which leads me to believe that you do nothing with your days except watch Maury Povich and troll the Internet) in order to prove the point that you can leave whenever you choose to leave? You can complain as loudly as you want to the manager about your check being presented too early and that manager will reply with a curt, “Your check was given to you so that is ready at your convenience.” And then when you continue to complain loudly and start to swear at kids, all the manager will have to do is call the cops and say, “Yeah can you come and escort this crazy fucking bitch out of my restaurant?” You see, the restaurant does have the right to ask you to leave. If you chose to sit at a table for nine hours all the while yelling and cursing, you can bet your flat ass that you will be escorted out and told never to return.

Raven, thank you for your comments. They were very entertaining and I truly hope you see this blog post dedicated to them. I am here to be the voice of servers across the land and your idiotic remarks were in dire need of a reply. Kindly crawl back into your hole, turn on your wi-fi and find someone else to annoy because I’m done with you.


Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Buh bye

Buh bye

This is just a quick note to let you know that I am on vacation in California for the next several days. It is highly doubtful I will find the time to blog while I am away because there will be more pressing issues to attend to like Disneyland, cocktails, San Diego Zoo, Palm Springs, San Francisco and cocktails. If you would like to follow along on this west coast adventure, please join me at Instagram (@thebitchywaiter) where I will be posting far too many photos of alcoholic beverages. Or you can find me on Twitter (@bitchywaiter) where you will find random thoughts and musings that will show you how truly desperate I am for attention.

Another update: my book is finally being published and I am in the throes of writing it which is another reason there has been less activity on the blog as of late. Hopefully it will all be worth it when the book comes out next year and people swarm Barnes and Noble to get their copy of it.

Thank you for everything. If you work in LA, Palm Springs, San Diego or San Francisco reach out to me and tell me where. Maybe I can pop in to see what kind of free shit I can get from you.




The Most Disgusting Bus Boy in the World

Totally gross

When I worked at Black Eyed Pea in Houston Texas about a thousand years, I worked with a girl named Connie. We caught her eating leftover rolls and fried okra straight from the bus tub which led to her nickname of Bus Tub Connie. She thought it was a waste of perfectly good food and felt an obligation to consume it.

“There are starving children in Africa who would be so grateful for this leftover piece of chicken fried chicken,” she’d say.

“And there are people in the restaurant who think you are a disgusting human being,” we’d tell her right back.

I never thought I would meet someone as nasty as her, but last night at work, it happened. Our bus boy Reggie is officially the mist disgusting person I have ever seen in my entire life.

Reggie is telling us how broke he is and how badly he needs some money. Since he lives at home and does not go to school, I don’t know what he needs money for. His parents don’t make him pay rent, he does not own a car, he does not have a girlfriend and I have never seen him wear anything but ripped up Levis and black t-shirts. The only logical explanationis that he is a major drug addict and needs his fix.

“Man, I would do anything for fifty extra bucks tonight, you know?” he says. “Anything.”

Kristine wants specifics and asks him what exactly he is willing to do for some extra cash since we are all bored at work and could use some entertainment.

“I dunno, “ answers Reggie. “What do you want me to do?”

This is Kristine’s chance. “What if we all pitched in some money and we are willing to give it to you if you eat something really gross?”

Reggie must be more desperate than Kristine expected because he quickly agrees to it. “Okay, what do you want me to eat?”

I can’t believe that he is willingly going to let us decide what he will put into his mouth and swallow. We set some ground rules:

  1. It will be one soup cup of something.
  2. Each person who outs in money gets to add an ingredient.
  3. He must swallow it all.
  4. He cannot drink any water until it has already gone down.
  5. If he throws up, it does not count.
  6. If he swallows it all and keeps it down for 30 seconds, he will get all the money we have thrown into the pot.

Reggie agrees, proving that he must be a serious meth-head. Kristine and I go around the restaurant to see who is willing to donate some money to this very important cause and we find seven people who are willing to each put in $5. It’s not quite the fifty that Reggie wants, but he says he will do it if we don’t fill the soup cup all the way to the top. Everyone chips in their five bucks and their ingredient choice.

  • Kristine: leftover carrot soup from Table 7
  • Juan: chocolate syrup
  • Tim: Tabasco sauce
  • Angel: a leftover hamburger setup that was pulled from the garbage can.
  • Tony: pineapple rice pudding
  • Sarah: dead broccoli from the window
  • Me: a piece of fat that was left on a plate from an order of the shell steak

Kristine mixes it all up in the cup and I swear to god it makes me want to throw up just looking at it. She gingerly places the piece of slimy steak fat on top of the concoction and presents it on a tray to Reggie. Next to the cup is a glass of water, a spoon and $35.

“Eat up,” she tells him.

Reggie picks up a spoon and I see not an ounce of hesitation in his eyes. He pushes the steak fat to the bottom of the cup and stirs it in. The lettuce and tomato from the hamburger setup is breaking apart with the broccoli while the chocolate syrup colors everything a deep dark color of diarrhea brown.

“I’m trying to pretend it’s a smoothie,” says Reggie.

“Yeah, a delicious fucking steak fat smoothie,” I remind him.

He lifts the spoon to his mouth and takes the first bite as the seven off us attempt to wrap our brains around this kind of desperation for $35. He swallows the fist bite and claims that it isn’t that bad. He still has at least three or four more bites to go and I am confident that when the time comes to to eat the fatty piece of gristle, we will all get our five dollars back. Remarkably, Reggie takes a second and third bite without batting an eyelash. There is one more bite to go and it is the one with the fat.

I taunt him. “Just remember who was eating that piece of steak fifteen minutes ago, Reggie. It was that old man at Table 9 who spits everywhere when he talks and leaves the whole table feeling greasy when he’s done. He probably had that piece of meat in his mouth before he spit it onto his plate and it’s the same mouth he used to eat out his wife last night.”

“Shut the fuck up, man!” Reggie yells. “Shut the fuck up.”

I begin to make gagging sounds and then Kristine and Sarah do the same thing as the spoon nears his mouth. I can see the fat quivering on the spoon and it has a some rice pudding on it that makes it look even more fatty.

Reggie swallows it and throws the spoon onto the floor. Kristine looks at her watch and begins the countdown for thirty seconds to see if Reggie will earn his prize.

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”

Reggie grabs the glass of water and the money. “Fuck all y’all, I did it. My money now, bitches.”

So Reggie is officially the nastiest person I have ever worked with and you are the most gullible if you would ever believe a story like this on April 1st.

April Fools!