My vacation is over and I am back home safely ensconced in my tomb of comfort in New York City. I spent the last eleven days in Texas where the rivers flow with cream gravy, the air is filled with the aroma of “fried” and margaritas come from the tap. I hesitantly call it a “vacation” since it was really a necessary trip to go visit family. Henceforth, it shall be called “oblication.” While there, I became part of that group of people who I hate waiting on. Many times, I found myself at a restaurant as part of a large party, with separate checks and children under the age of six. I cringe just remembering the look on many a server’s face over the last week and a half as we came into a restaurant.
One night we were a party of nine. As soon as we sat down, my seven year old nephew opened a packet of crackers and poured ketchup on them to create the most disgusting sandwich I have ever seen. I declined his offer for a bite of it. I also spied him pouring salt and pepper onto the table and making designs with it. I then saw him standing on the chair and also running around the restaurant a few times. At one point, he opened up the squirt ketchup bottle and sucked some of it out. Yeah. These are the children that I hate in my station and suddenly I am related to one of them and sitting next to him. A big loud holla out to Amanda who was our server. The girl kicked ass and was never phased by anything. At the end of the night I went to tell her thank you and also to plug The Bitchy Waiter. She told me that one of the other servers told her that a kid at one of her tables was licking the ketchup bottle. “Yeah, that was my nephew. Sorry.” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “No big deal. I’ll throw it out after you leave.”
When we left the restaurant, I turned back to look at the table and saw a pile of Saltines on the floor. I grimaced and weakly yelled out, “Thanks, Amanda.” It was official. I was the person I hate.
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