Monthly Archives: August 2009

What Not to Wear

Uniforms are a pain in my ass. For most of my illustrious food service career, I have had to wear one. I suppose I don’t mind, because it makes it easy to decide what to wear each day. Hmmm, this stained black polo or that stained black polo? These ripped up khakis or the khakis with the hole in the back pocket? What really irks me is when the restaurant decides what you have to wear, but they don’t provide it. They will give you a list of approved stores to buy your pants from; The Gap or Old Navy usually. Or they will say to get some (totally lame ass) Dockers or (stiff as board) Dickies workpants. They will tell you which style to get and how much they will cost but what they won’t do is pay for it. I don’t get that. I feel like if they are going to decide what I have to wear, then they should dole out some dollars for that shit. I don’t wear khakis in my real life so why do I want to pay for them to wear to work? And who the fuck wears Dickies anywhere except at a job where you are required to wear them? Seriously, they are horrible And the shirts? They are always the same thing. A black or white polo or a blue oxford. And they never pay for that either. Sometimes they will give you a t-shirt or something to wear and they will give you the first one for free. Wow. Thanks. But if you want two or three so you don’t have to wash a load of fucking clothes after every shift, you gotta pay for it. Or what is even shittier is when they do provide the uniform but they take it out of your paycheck. Excuse me? You’re gonna give me two ugly ass shirts and two pairs of pants that don’t fit and it will come out of my paycheck for the next zillion weeks because they are overpriced and I only make $3.00 an hour? Fuck you.

Then I got a job where I could wear whatever I wanted. “Oh how it will make my day so much better to wear my own clothes,” I thought. That lasted about a day. You quickly realize you don’t want to wear your good clothes to work because they just get covered in honey mustard, coffee and shame. The Dickies may suck, but if you spill anything on them it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what those bitches are made of, but nothing sticks to them. Food and liquid just bounces right off like the fabric is Teflon. So even though my last job allowed me to wear my own clothes, within a few weeks that too had become a uniform: one pair of jeans (stained, ripped at the bottom) and three different t-shirts that I didn’t care how much honey mustard or coffee got on. As for the shame part? Whatever. I have been serving food for so long the shame has permanently attached itself to my epidermis.

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The Other Side of the Menu


So I went to breakfast today at a restaurant and sat at a table and had someone wait on me. I would normally be doing the serving today, but my asswipe boss closed down the restaurant I worked at with only three days notice and now this Bitchy Waiter doesn’t have a job. I am just Bitchy right now. And mad. And bitter. And unemployed. Anyhoo. As I was a customer today, I looked around at what the waitress had to deal with and I felt her pain.

I saw the old couple who sat at one table to order and then a few minutes later got up to change tables. As she shoved the table out of her way she barked out, “we’re changing tables, but we’ll have the same order.” Really, lady? Do you think the waitress is as dumb as you are fat? I am certain that she assumes that you still want your eggs cooked the same way even though you are sitting at a different table now. Or does the lady think that if you sit at one table you have to eat oatmeal and at another table you have to eat cream of wheat? What a dumb bitch.

I saw the man next to me eat his meal and then when the waitress thought he was ready to go he ordered another bagel. That, sir, is annoying. She wants you out of her station when you are done, not stick around for 20 minuter longer for you to nibble on a bagel as you and your annoying girlfriend discuss the merits of the PC/Mac Guy commercials. Seriously, they discussed this for about an eternity. “How did they get the parts? How often do they shoot a commercial? Did you know that one guy really works for Microsoft?” I wanted to stick a fork in her throat to get her to shut up about it. When the bagel came out, he sent it back because it wasn’t toasted enough. But he didn’t say it nicely. Oh no. He did not realize there are two ways to ask for something. Nice: “Hi, I’m sorry, but would it be possible for this to be toasted a bit more, please?” His way: (with eye roll) “Uh, this needs to be toasted. It’s warm but it’s not toasted.” Then the whole time it was being toasted to his liking, he was craning his neck around trying to see when it was coming back. And sighing. What a douche.

I ate my waffle and enjoyed my time on the other side of the menu. I left her a 28% tip.

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NEW DOMAIN NAME


Bitchy Waiter is now THE Bitchy Waiter. That’s right. I am it. THE one. And even easier to find now at www.thebitchywaiter.com (shout out to Chris, holla!)

So if you have me linked on your blog role, or your favorites make sure you notice the URL change.

The Bitchy Waiter thanks you.

Waiter, There’s Something in My Food


We have all found something in food that should not be there haven’t we? If we find a hair in our salad at home, we simply remove it and go on eating, assuming that the hair is our own and not from one of the people at the grocery store who stocked the produce. However, when someone finds a hair in their food at the restaurant there is absolutely no way that it can be anyone else’s hair except the waiter. And they freak out. I mean, it’s a hair. Get over it. Some people act like it’s a poison that is going to burn their throat if it gets anywhere near them. But a hair? That’s nothin’.

I worked at a place once where the kitchen was full of douchebag cooks who got a kick out of making the servers miserable. Theoretically, it was Bennigan’s in Houston, Texas on Shepherd at Highway 59, but it really could be any restaurant in the world because nine times out of ten, the kitchen is full of douchebag cooks. Anyhoo, one of my tables had ordered the delicious and freshly thawed Brownie Bottom Sundae Death by Chocolate Creamy Fudge Pie or whatever the fuck they called it. My table called me over because they had found something in their dessert that was neither chocolate nor brownie. Even I was surprised at what was before my eyes. I guess the dessert “chef” was pissed at me for having a more fulfilling life than him and he was seeking vengeance. Under the ice cream and covered in fudge, there was a fish tail that had been cut off from the deep fried crispy catfish. A fucking fish tail poking out of the gooey chocolate goodness. There was no way to deny it. It was not a hair that I could suggest was one of their own or a bug that only proves that out produce is “unbelievably fresh.” It was a fucking raw fish tail in their dessert. I stifled laughter because even though I was mad that this asshat cook was fucking with my tip, it was pretty funny. The table was all upset about it and blah blah bah, but you just tell them that the next dessert is free or you give them a coupon to buy one plate of nachos and get another one for half-price, and they get over it real quick.

I never acknowledged it to the cook because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I saw him staring at me trying to gauge my reaction, but I gave him nothing. Well nothing except a glob of mayonnaise under the door handle of his car, but other than that, nothing.

You Say Potato I Say Potato


Why do people go all nuts and balls over sweet potato fries? Sure, they may be a bit better for you than the lowly russet or Yukon gold, but they still get sliced up and dropped into a bubbling vat of oil and saturated fat and then fried fried fried. But when people find out that they can have sweet potato fries as an option it suddenly justifies the sixteen ounce hamburger they are having that is covered with melted cheese and the milkshake to wash it all down. Mothers always choose the sweet potato fries for their kids even though we all know that a kid wants a real french fry and not some orange looking french fry wanna be. Unless it’s a Cheeto, then that would be perfectly okay.

I guess the sweet potato is loaded with antioxidants. They help slow the aging process of the skin and organs and lower the chance of cancer and all kinds of other healthy shit. But blueberries are full of antioxidants too and no one is going to think it’s okay to fry a bunch of blueberries and call it a health food. Hold the phone. Hold. The. Phone. I think I may have just created my next endeavor. I will open a health food restaurant and only serve foods that are high in antioxidants. And I will fry them all. Fried pinto beans, fried artichokes, fried prunes, fried strawberries and fried pecans. All in the name of health food! And when some physically fitness minded bitch comes in and says to me that a plate of fried prunes is not a health food, I will point out to her that the prune is full of antioxidants. And if she doesn’t like my idea of health food then she can roll up her yoga mat and stuff it up her well toned vag.

The next time you have the option of sweet potato fries or real fries, do yourself a favor. Just get the real ones. That’s what you want and you know it. If you really feel the need to be healthy order a fucking salad.

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My Friend, Liquor


Many times people ask me how I get through my day at work if I obviously find so little enjoyment in it. True, there is very little to enjoy while waiting tables but I do look forward to walking out of the Hell Hole with a wad of cash in my pocket. Cash does wonders for my attitude. So does alcohol. Yes, it helps a lot. Luckily I work at a place where it is relatively easy to slip in a few cocktails in between ignoring customers, short changing people and grazing in the kitchen. I think I shall write about how I got through last Thursday night.

The beginning of my shift: I started with a lovely cocktail that was made especially for me by the bartender. It had Hpnotiq and Stoli Vanilla vodka straight up. What is Hpnotiq, you may ask? I stole this from the website: Hynotiq is an exquisite blend of premium vodka, natural tropical fruit juices and a hint of Cognac which combine to produce its signature frosted blue. It’s also fucking delicious and makes it much easier to deal with that bitch on table 201 who wants a veggie burger but only if it’s going to be “a really good one.”

The middle of my shift: I went up to my dear friend the margarita machine. I said to it, “How you doin’?” I kissed it, told it that I loved it and fondled the lever until it rewarded me with a tall glass of frosty tequila love. I then added a shot of Watermelon Pucker and some fresh squeezed watermelon juice. I swallowed.

The end of my shift: I had made it through the night without telling anyone to fuck off and I deserved compensation for that. Therefore, I asked the bartender to hook me up and she made me a Lemon Shot. Don’t know what was in it but it was good. Real good. Sweet and tart at the same time, just like me, and the perfect foil to my bad attitude.

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