Monthly Archives: December 2009

Ketchup Might Be The Grossest Thing Ever


While I was writing about the disgusting habits of the lemon, it brought to mind another item that is found in every restaurant that also has its fair share of nastiness to it. Ketchup. Or Catsup. However the fuck you decide to spell it, the shit is nasty. Don’t misunderstand me. As a rule, ketchup is not a nasty condiment. The bottle in my fridge right now is perfectly fine and dandy. However, it is not the same bottle that has been there for two years and I just keep refilling it over and over again, each time scraping off the black crud that has accumulated on the rim and lid. We save that behavior for restaurant ketchups. The last place I worked that had ketchup used the same bottles and we just refilled them every weekend. So if the bottle was half empty (or half full for you eternal cock-eyed optimist fucks) we just filled it up. What that means is, the ketchup at the bottom of the bottle just stays there for months and months at a time. It’s really gross. And you know that it’s time to throw it away when tiny bubbles start forming on the inside of the bottle. When you see that happening, run for the hills because the shit is about to blow. Or you can just put that bottle on the shelf and save it for the next time some real cunt asks for ketchup and you can give her that one and hope that the tomato time bomb goes off right in her cunty face. Fingers crossed. I’ve seen it happen. The pressure builds up and as soon as you unscrew the lid, it sends ketchup all over the place. It makes a big mess and it’s a pain in the ass to clean it up, but if it gets all over a customer it’s so totally worth it. You gotta take the good with the bad.

When I go to a restaurant, the first thing I do is look at the ketchup bottle. If the inside of the lid is caked with old dead ketchup, I order something that will not require me to said condiment. I would way rather have a ketchup packet than a bottle anytime. At least with a packet, you know you are the only one who has used it. The bottles that sit on the table all the time are the worst. How many times have you seen some dick who can’t get the ketchup to flow? What does he do? He sticks a knife in the bottle to get the ketchup. And what if that knife is the same one he just used for mustard or to slice his sandwich or to scratch his ass with? And then that same bottle of nasty ass-scratched ketchup is there for you to use.

Avoid ketchup bottles like the plague. Thoughts?

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Lemons Are Dirty, Dirty Things

Dirty lemon bitches

I was at work the other day about to put a lemon wedge onto the glass of someones Diet Coke when I accidentally dropped it and watched the lemon fall to the floor. I sighed and bent down to pick it up to throw it in the trash because it would certainly be unsanitary to give a guest a lemon wedge that had fallen on the floor. I tossed the lemon into the garbage but then I thought about something. It’s not like that lemon was even clean to begin with. No one in a restaurant ever washes the fruit. They just don’t. When I am at home, I scrub the hell out of it because that piece of fruit has been all over the fucking place; in the hands of some migrant worker and then tossed into a bucket and then onto a truck and then into a shipping facility and then onto another truck and then into a grocery store. And you know some of the time it rolls around on the ground. Do you think that shit ever gets washed? Hell no. It’s as dirty as the bottom of a shoe of a man who just peed at a public urinal. But in the restaurant world, we look at that lemon and think, “Meh, clean enough. Slice that bitch up and put it in a drink.”

Am I the only one who believes that the bar fruit in a restaurant is one of the nastiest things on the planets? It’s right up there with that bowl of peanuts that sits on the bar at your favorite dive that everyone eats out of. Germy, nasty, bacteria-ridden, skanky shit. Bon appetite!

Happy Anniversary to TheBitchyWaiter.com


The Bitchy Waiter blog turns one year old today. There have been 109 posts and almost 20,000 visitors. That is a post every 3.34 days which is pretty good when you consider how incredibly lazy and unmotivated I am. I have worked in two different restaurants, catered in many places and bitched about it the whole time. I just wanted to say thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting. And thank you to all the people who took photos that I have so totally stolen for this website. Well, a couple of the photos are mine. And the big pancake painting is actually mine too. So no bitching today. If I could have one thing, it would be to have all the servers of the world gather around me and present me with a stale piece of cake with a dirty candle in it. And then I would want then to all sing a birthday song to me all off key and uncaring and then as soon as they are done, I want them to run away from my table and go to the side stand and say what a douche I am for having waiters sing to me on my birthday.

One year ago today I wrote my first post. I weep with pride. You can click here to see where it all started. Once a bitch, always a bitch.

And what else do I want? I want you to share this blog with your fellow bitchy friends. Just click a link. Is that hard? It’s not like I am asking for separate checks or anything.
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Senior Citizens Make Me Nervous


There must have been a 50% off coupon for my club mailed to all AARP members this week because my whole station smelled like old people yesterday. You know the smell? A little bit of moth ball and Lysol with a hint of poo? Woman at table 13 last night. I give her my usual routine about the two-beverage minimum and how it would be best if she could just tell me both drinks at the beginning so I don’t have to crawl over everybody and yell into her hearing aid to ask what she wants in the middle of the show. She seemed confused by me asking what she wanted for her second drink even though she hadn’t had her first one. I felt bad. I know how confusing things can be for older people. Remote controls, computers, garage door openers…the world can be a scary place, old lady. She ordered a tonic water. So I asked her if she wanted that for her second drink as well. And then she asked me something that no one has ever asked me before while I was waiting on them. She looked up at me with sad sorrowful eyes and cocked her head to the right a bit. And then she asked me. She said, “Is tonic water a laxative?” Uh, what? What the fuck is the old lady asking me? I didn’t know if she wanted it to be a laxative because she needed to make a Grandma Poopy Pie or if she was scared it was a laxative because she had already had her daily recommended allowance of laxative and one more bit of laxative would make a big embarrassing scene. I told her quite honestly that I didn’t know. In my head I was thinking “oh if this lady takes a fucking dump here, I will cut an old bitch.” She decided that just to be on the safe side she would have a bottled water for her second drink. Just to be on the safe side? It sounds to me like Grandma McGrunty needed to skip the show tonight and make a date with her dear friend Mr. Toilet.

The show went on without incident. She flagged me down for the check before the show was over because she was in a hurry. It doesn’t take much thought to figure out what she was in a hurry to do. She bolted out as soon as the show was done. I warily approached her seat scared of what I might find when I looked down at it. Thankfully, it was clean and dry. I hadn’t been that concerned about the dryness of a seat since two weeks ago when this lady was squirming all over chair as she was watching a Peter Allen tribute show. The guy singing was Australian and I just wanted to remind her that this guy wasn’t really Peter Allen. He’s dead. Didn’t matter to her though. She was hopping and jumping all over that seat and I was just glad that any possible wettness stayed in her panties.

I have since done some exhaustive research (I googled it) and found no link to tonic water being a laxative. So rest assured, people. Feel free to drink those gin and tonics without any fear of softened stools or unsightly bowel movements. You’re welcome.
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The Real Housewife of “I’m a Bitch” County


So I was watching television today and saw about two minutes of The Real Housewives of Wherever the Fuck. Honestly, I was just switching channels and this scene caught my eye. I don’t normally waste my precious time watching such mediocre crap on television. I use my boob tube time for important shit like So You think You Can Dance, The Biggest Loser, America’s Next Top Model, Top Chef, Survivor and 60 Minutes. Okay one of those is not true, but I will let you guess which one of those things is not like the others. Anyhoo, one of the women was ordering at a cocktail at a restaurant. Not sure of her name or which one she was, but she was blond and had really big fake-looking tits. Does that narrow it down at all? When she ordered, I hated her immediately. I actually grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down what she said:

I’m gonna do a Cadillac margarita but I like it with Sterling Silver with a little bit of Grand Mariner and two fresh limes squeezed in it with soda water and only salt on part of the rim.

Is she for fucking real? Then she bragged about how she likes to order food in a certain way because she is so particular. She calls it particular, while I call it cunt-like. The waitress had a big ol’ smile plastered to her face but you know it was only there because she had this fucking reality show camera all up in her ass. I bet as soon as she got to the side stand, she found the skankiest glass she could find to give to the bartender. And then she probably said to the bartender, “this lady is a fucking cunt.” And then I bet the bartender took the two fresh lime wedges that she wanted and he dropped them onto the floor before he dropped them into her glass and then when he salted the rim (partially) he used dishwater to adhere the salt and the Grand Mariner was probably just cheap ass triple sec. Because that is what she deserved. Honestly if you need something that specific, make it at home.

I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did. I could feel the pain of the waitress and I wanted to reach into my screen and pat her on the shoulder and tell her that everything was going to be okay. And then I wanted to cunt punch that “real” housewife because she needs that to happen to her for once. And it would have made great reality television.
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Paging Dr. Waiter, Come Right Away


Does anyone have to deal with “on-call shifts” at their job? If you are a nurse working the ER or a doctor, sure. Then it’s important to have that on-call person in case a busload of kids is in an accident and the hospital is overrun with need. But an on-call waiter just pisses my shit off. I had one job once where they always had an on-call person and that was only one of the many things that made it a craptastic place to work. I won’t say the name of it but let’s just hypothetically say it was Josie’s at Amsterdam and 74th. I was dreading the day that it would be my turn to be on-call. You have to keep that whole day free just in case they might need you. And the only time they needed you was when some other bitch waiter called in sick and the only reason that bitch waiter would call in sick was because he knew there was an on-call loser that would have to come in for him. It was a vicious vicious cycle and I really resented it. So anyhoo, the day came. I saw on the schedule that I was on-call for 4:00 and I would have to call at 3:00 to see if I had to come to work. Well, it took me 45 minutes to get to work so I basically was going to have to be ready to leave as soon as I got off the phone. I had already scheduled a catering gig for that night because it was sure thing and I didn’t want to pass it by. Well, those bitches called me at 2:00 and said, “Bad news, Bitchy Waiter. We need you to come in at 4:00.” I said, “Yeah, about that. I need to come in and talk to you, Mr. Manager.” So on the way to my sure thing catering gig, I popped into the hypothetical Josie’s at 4:00. I had my uniform, my apron, my check presenter and my bad attitude in a paper sack. I saw one of the managers and asked if I could talk to her in private. She was the cool one. She looked at me. She looked at the bag in my hand. And she said, “You’re quitting aren’t you?”

I did quit. I gave them no notice whatsoever and said my fond farewell to the place that I had given some of the best three weeks of my life. The manager that was working that night was a total prick. And all the waitresses at that place were total bitches who were mean and spiteful and I was so completely happy to walk through the dining room and know that they were going to be screwed all night because I was quitting. Fuck you, hypothetical Josie’s at Amsterdam and 74th. Your on-call shifts can eat my pud.

Also, you may have noticed that I have made it even easier for people to share Bitchy Waiter postings with this handy dandy link below. You can click it to share it on your Facebook, Myspace or whatever else needs more Bitchy Waiter in its life. Spread the word, peeps. The world needs Bitchy Waiter.
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