Yearly Archives: 2010

How To Open a Bottle of Champagne

I hope you have your champagne chilling because in just a few hours it will be time to obligatorily take a sip and then kiss who ever you are dating, married to or just happen to be standing next to at midnight. So many people love the taste of champagne but only have it on special occasions. I say fuck that. Have it whenever you want it. About two weeks ago, I made hamburgers for dinner and served it with a bottle of fine sparkling wine. It really complimented the Costco meat patties, Miracle Whip and American cheese. Opening a bottle of champagne takes a bit of practice so I thought I would share with you my immense experience of opening them. And before you think I am a total alcoholic (I am), this experience comes from six years as a brunch server where I opened about twenty bottles a day. Most people think that successfully opening bottle of champagne means it spews out all over the place in a premature ejaculation kind of way. Not cool though. Here is the right way to open a bottle of champagne:

  1. Take off that foil crap that is all around the cork. Use your teeth if you have to.
  2. Now you want to remove that wire cage thing. You have to put your thumb over the cork in case the pressure has built up and it’s ready to pop. Unless you shook the bottle too much, it’s probably fine. Just don’t point the bottle at your nether regions or eyes. Twist the wire counter-clockwise six half rotations and then take it off. Or leave it on. Whatever.
  3. Now you can put a towel over it in prep to remove the cork. I don’t do that though because I’m a pro. Grip the cork and now start twisting the bottle. Not the cork. The bottle. Kinda pull it at the same time and you should feel it start to loosen and rise from the bottle.
  4. Keep control of the cork even though it’s totally tempting to shoot that bitch at somebody. Don’t do it. It really brings down a party when someone actually loses an eye. You want to let it release with a soft “poofy” noise. Like the sound a fart makes when you think it’s going to be silent, but it’s not. You don’t want that loud pop.
  5. It’s open. Pour that baby into a beer bong and go to town.

The movies always show people popping the cork and then laughing as the champagne spills all over the place. What they don’t show is what a pain in the ass it is to clean up all that champagne. They also don’t show me sitting in the corner at the end of the night all pissed off because we are out of champagne because half of it is on the fucking floor.

Happy New Year!! Tweet this for good luck.

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Not Too Close For Comfort

At my job, I get to serve drinks during the shows of some extraordinarily talented people, some of whom are very famous. It’s kind of a treat when someone I have known of my entire life shows up to sing there and I get to meet them and talk to them and hear their show. It’s definitely a perk with my job. This very thing happened a few weeks ago.

If you grew up in the 80’s, you must remember Too Close for Comfort. It ran on ABC from 1980 to 1986 and it was pretty popular. It ran on Tuesday nights right after Happy Days, Lavern and Shirley and Three’s Company. It was the best television night of the week ever, except for Saturday night when Love Boat and Fantasy Island came on. If you don’t recall Too Close For Comfort, what the hell is wrong with you? I loved the crazy wacky neighbor Monroe who was was played by Jim J. Bullock. He was gayer than the day is long and makes Lispy Gay seem like a butch leather daddy. The show was your typical sitcom fare with a bumbling dad (Ted Knight), two hot daughters (Has Been #1 and Has Been #2) and a sensible all knowing mom named Muriel Rush played with perfection by Nancy Dussault. Nancy Dussault is who I had the pleasure of listening to while I waited tables. She has a real long legitimate Broadway career and I was excited to meet this lady who I had grown up watching. When she came in for her sound check, I was hoping she would be as cool and as sweet as she seemed on television in the 80’s. (It’s amazing that I an even recall seeing her on television in the 80’s since I wasn’t even born yet…) Guess what. She was so freakin‘ cool. She was genuine and sincere and smiled a lot and I even had a conversation with her which thrilled me to no end. I would like to dictate the entire conversation for your reading pleasure:

NANCY: Hi there. Would you mind getting me a glass of water please?
ME: Not at all. Do you want ice?
NANCY: No thank you.
(I got her a glass of water and put a straw in it. The straw still had the paper wrapper around the top of it. I handed her the glass as she pulled the paper off the straw.)
NANCY: Teamwork!
ME: That’s right!

So I may have only had the most banal of conversations, but this is what I was thinking in my head:

Oh my God, I can’t believe I am meeting you. I loved Too Close For Comfort. Do you still talk to the rest of the cast? Well I know you don’t talk to Ted Knight anymore because he’s dead and that would be creepy, but do you still talk to the live ones? Was Jim J. Bullock as gay as he seemed? I loved him. He was funny. I know your character was a photographer who used to be a singer but how come they didn’t let you sing on the show all the time? Oh my god, that would have been so cool. I love in the opening credits how Ted Knight would fall off that couch? That was so funny. Was it hard to shoot that scene because it was so funny? Oh my god, it was so funny. Hey, do you know Fonzie? Can I hug you? Because I really think you’re cool. You guys should totally have a reunion show and I would totally watch it. I mean, it would be sad that Ted Knight wouldn’t be on it, but it would still be pretty cool. The girls who played your daughters were so hot but Monroe was my favorite. Next to you, I mean. You are my favorite. Hey, do you know Suzanne Sommers?

Don’t worry, I kept it together and made that conversation stay inside my mind. I played it smooth. Her show was great. She can still sing, she’s very funny and I really enjoyed getting her a glass of water. And you should totally refresh your memory about her television career by watching this video. Once you see it, you too will think that when Ted Knight falls off the couch, it’s really really for reals funny.

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Christmas is Over

Between it being Christmas, this crazy fucked up blizzard and my sheer and utter laziness, I have not written for a couple of days. Hopefully, you are all getting over your Christmas/Kwanzaa/Solstice/Hanukkah bloat and are ready to focus on the task at hand: Bitchy Waiter. I must share with you my Christmas Eve meal because it was kinda amazing. I went to a place called Kittichai for your typical holiday meal of modern Thai cuisine and lots and lots of cocktails. Loved. It.

Starting at the bar, I was overwhelmed with options for my starter drink. They all looked so good. I laughed to the bartender, “Can I just have a taste of every single one?” The bartender clearly had no sense of humor because he just rolled his eyes and said no. Or maybe he did have a sense of humor but was in an understandably shitty mood since it was 8:00 PM on Christmas Eve and he has to make cocktails for an alcoholic bitch like me. I meant to write down the name of every drink but I assured myself I would remember the name and all the ingredients in them as well. Fail. My first was called something like a chili citrus martini and it made my face melt off with deliciousness. I do recall that it had Citrus Vodka, Limoncello and hot peppers muddled in it. It was so freaking good. After the first sip, I thought it was too spicy, but after sip number three it was just right and after sip number ten I was just said that it was gone. Go there. Order it. Tell them The Bitchy Waiter sent you. They won’t know what the fuck you are talking about, but say it anyway.

At this point, the table was ready and I ordered cocktail number two. Again, I forgot what it was called and even what was in it. Vodka, I know that. Cocktail number three was called Thom and was citrus vodka with fresh mint. Again, it was perfection. Of course at this point they could have served me leftover dog drool with a garnish and I would have been happy. The food was divine as well. Crispy rock shrimp and coconut chicken in lettuce wraps gave me a Thai boner as my apps and for dinner I took a virtual bath in the green curry. Dessert was the flourless chocolate cake. I felt like I climaxed. And swallowed.

The service was top notch. After my days at The Place that Shall Not Be Named, I see how the inner workings of fine dining go. When I got up to go to the men’s room, I watched as a backwaiter rushed to my table to refold my napkin. After the entree, someone glided over to crumb the table. Our order was taken by a manager who seemed like an Asian Ana Gasteyer and was eager to share her extensive menu knowledge. She was friendly and attentive but I couldn’t help but wonder if she had a little bit of Holly Hobbie going on.

At the end of the night, my stomach was as full as my wallet was empty. But it didn’t matter. This was my Christmas present. I bestowed fat tips on my server, the coat check girl and the front bartender. I was content. The meal was perfect and I had not one single solitary thing to bitch about. A true Christmas miracle indeed.

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Merry Christmas from The Bitchy Waiter

It’s Christmas day and you don’t have anything better to do than to be reading this lame ass posting that I am pulling out if my ass? Go have yourself another mimosa and a second piece of pecan pie immediately. And if you are looking for something a little bitchy for Christmas, might I suggest you go watch this video of a horrible Mrs. Claus? I think it exemplifies Christmas from The Bitchy Waiter point of view.

Merry Christmas!

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‘Twas the Night Before a Bitchy Christmas

This is a Bitchy Waiter tradition. I wrote this last year and I hope you enjoy this magical tale about a waiter closing down his restaurant and dealing with one last customer. If you’d like to hear it read to you, please click here. If you’d like to download the podcast version of it on iTunes, you can click here. Merry Christmas.

The Bitchy Waiter

‘Twas the Night Before a Bitchy Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, in the front of the house
The only creature still stirring was that sad dying mouse;

The glue trap was placed by the reach-in with care,
In hopes that the rodents would soon be aware;

This server was ready to be home in his bed.
While visions of auto-grat danced in his head.

My apron now off, cleaning my last ketchup cap,
When I hear from the window a soft gentle rap.

I try to ignore all the obnoxious clatter,
But I walk towards the noise to see what’s the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Crack it open so slightly, do nothing rash.

The moon on the breasts of this tired looking ho
Gave me the feeling she wanted some mo’.

When, what to my wondering eye should appear,
This bitch had a coupon for one freebie beer.

With her Lee Press-on Nails and her mascara too thick,
I knew in a moment she must be some trick.

A hooker, a ho, or whatever the name,
“It’s Christmas Eve, bitch. We’re closed, it’s a shame.”

“Please, just a Bud, a Corona or Bass!
I have this free coupon I pulled from my ass!
In six more short days, the coupon’s not valid,
And if not a beer, maybe one small side salad?”

I looked at the lady, saw the need in her eyes,
And wondered how badly she wanted some fries.

“But we’re closed for the night and I’m ready to go”
So I turned off the light and shut the window.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
Scratching and gnawing giving me proof
That this crack whore was desperate and needed a beer
Or maybe she needed some holiday cheer.

She broke through the skylight and came down with a thud.
Her panties were twisted and covered with mud.

Way too much makeup was covering her face
And her sad bloodshot eyes were scanning the place.

Her eyes- how they crossed! Her hair was so scary!
I pitied the loser who had popped her cherry.

Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And her nose was all white from doing some blow.

The stump of a blunt she held tight in her teeth.
And the stench of her body encircled her head like a wreath;

She had a broad face and a round big fat belly,
And she reached to a table for a packet of jelly.

She slurped it up quickly and looked at the shelf
I picked up a steak knife to protect myself.

The bottles of liquor went straight to her head,
And I knew right away I had nothing to dread;

She spoke not a word, but went straight to the whiskey.
She downed the whole bottle and asked “did you miss me?”

And laying her finger aside of her nose,
She took one deep sniff and reached into her clothes.

In her hand was the coupon for the beer that was free
She said thank you, then burped and gave it to me.

I opened the door and she went out of sight,
Saying “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”

Don’t Make Me Kick You


I certainly don’t enjoy repeatedly stepping on someone’s foot or kicking them in the shin every time I walk past their table. However, sometimes these things happen and they simply can’t be avoided. Well, actually, it could be avoided if that someone would just keep their fucking legs underneath their table instead of out in the goddamn mother fucking aisle.

I wait tables in the dark. It’s true. I have developed a keen cat-like vision that allows me to navigate through a crowded room with only the tiniest bit of light. I cocktail in a cabaret venue, so the only lights are the ones that are focused on the singer. Yes, it would be nice to have a special or a spotlight that followed me so I could see where I was stepping, but that’s just not how it is. I deal.

Last night, a woman at Table 3 seemed unable to keep her legs anywhere other than the lone aisle that I have to walk through in order to get to every other table in the room. She was wearing black pants and black shoes and when you take into account that there is no light, you can see why it was easy for me to kick her three or twenty times. You would think that after the first time I accidentally stepped on her toe she would have some thought mechanism that would tell her maybe she should move her feet out of the fucking way. She had no such thought mechanism.

After the show was over, I was walking in the aisle and I tripped on her enormous feet. Again. I stopped and said, “I know I hit your leg a few times during the show, I’m so sorry.”

That was her cue to say something like, “No it’s my fault. I have no manners and don’t respect you at all and coupled with my abnormally large feet, I have been a nuisance to you all night. Please forgive me.” Instead she said, “Yes, you hit me three times. The third time’s the charm, do I get something?”

Bitch, I hate you.

I laughed my fake ass laugh and said, “I know, I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t see. And this is the aisle. That I walk in.”

She countered with, “Well, my friend didn’t want me to have my feet under the table because I was kicking her, so I had to put them in the aisle.”

Excuse me? Her friend is just sitting there and not walking. And why is this woman kicking her friend? Does she have restless leg syndrome or some involuntarily tic that makes her leg bounce around?

“Well, this is the aisle though. I have to walk here.”

Then she asked me where she was supposed to put her legs. What the fuck kind of question is that? You put your fucking legs under the table and deal with it. If I had my druthers, I’d have them both amputated at the knee and then shoved up her ass, but I suggested that next time she sit cross-legged Indian style and then laughed my fake ass laugh.

“Oh, well maybe ten years ago I could have done that. But not anymore.”

Like I really expected her to do that. It was a joke. And looking at her, the only thing she could do ten years ago that she can’t do now is control her bowel movements.

I gave up. Show over. Scene complete. Don’t care. I hope she had bruises on her knees from me hitting her all night, but she probably didn’t. Her knees are more than likley all calloused from the bathroom blow jobs anyway.