Bitchy Cater Waiter

Although most of my wealth comes from waiting tables, I sometimes earn riches by being a cater waiter too. It’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. If you’ve ever been to some fancy dancy wing-ding where food was being passed around by a bunch of douchebags dressed in tuxedos or all black, I was one of those douchebags. I have to wander around the party with food that is usually on a silver tray and say over and over again, “Crabcake? Crabcake?” or “Goat cheese tart? Goat cheese tart?” or whatever the fuck they threw on my tray. They always try to come up with some creative bullshit name for the food when really it’s just cheese on a fancy fucking cracker. One place makes me call a chicken quesadilla a “chicken bouquet” so all I do all night is explain that it’s really just a fucking chicken quesadilla. Some places wrack their brains trying to come up with other things than a tray to put the food on. I have served hor’dourves on leaves, logs, tiles, cardboard boxes, sand, rocks, ice and one time on a freakin’ skateboard.

The people who go to these events always seem to be on the verge of starvation. It’s like they just came in from some poor African country and all they have had to eat for the last eight months was rice and dirt and they can’t wait to get a bite of the pig in a blanket that I’m lugging around on a tray made of straw. People grab and pull and rush. They don’t even look to see what’s on the tray. They want it. I could be serving my boogers dusted in powdered sugar and they would eat three or four of them before asking what it was. And once they find out where the door to the kitchen is, they surround it. They wait like white on rice or lions on wildebeest ready to pounce on that chicken dumpling. Sometimes it’s fun to walk out with a tray that you are using to pick up crap and every time someone will try to eat a piece of garbage.

The only good thing about this gig is that if people don’t like the food they can just kiss my ass. Not my problem, pal. I love it when some uptight bitch asks me if we have any vegetarian options and I can look her in the eye and say, “nope.” Don’t care if you’re lactose intolerant or allergic to nuts or don’t like pickles. I gots what I gots, so eat it or get the hell out of my way. Okay, I suppose there are two good things about this gig. You can usually manage to have a glass of wine through the night when you cater. Find a friend in the bartender and find a long empty hallway or dark corner and you down a glass of wine or three. I find that I am a much better waiter when I am slighty buzzed. It’s the only way I can deal with the asswipe that wants his mini-cheeseburger cooked at a different temperature.

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