Yearly Archives: 2013

This Mother Does Not Want You to Ask Her Kids a Certain Question

Would you like fries with that?

Would you like fries with that?

I just love it when someone writes an article about a server in a restaurant because it always gives me an opportunity to respond to it. So often, the writer comes across as entitled and annoying and this case is no exception. In an article called “What Restaurant Servers Should NEVER Ask My Kids,” a mom complains about her dining experience at a kid-friendly restaurant. I knew I was going to hate the article when I read this part of a sentence in the second paragraph: “When the server finally came to take our dinner order…” Right away, she is establishing that the service was not up to her time standards. With no other indication of her dissatisfaction, she uses the word “finally” to make sure that all readers know she thought it took too damn long for the waiter to get to her table. Her two kids each ordered spaghetti which came with a side. The server simply asked, “Are fries okay with that?”

Just so you know, that is the question you should never ask her kids. I repeat: Do not. Ask her kids. If they. Want. Fries. I pity the poor cashier at McDonald’s the next time one of those kids orders a cheeseburger off the 99₵ menu.

She told the server that it would not be okay, because they were already going to be having french fries as an appetizer and she wanted to know what other options were available. The server informed her that they could choose between Caesar salad or mixed greens, applesauce, carrots and ranch dressing, sliced apples with yogurt dip, steamed veggies, or grilled veggies. She wanted to know why the server thought it was alright to suggest fries with pasta because “who in their right mind eats fries with spaghetti anyhow?”

I dunno who eats fries with spaghetti but it might be the same people who eat fries as an appetizer. I guess she was angry because she felt the server was pushing a non-healthy dinner choice onto her kids that would go with their non-healthy appetizer choice. Maybe the server didn’t feel like reiterating all seven option when in all likelihood they were printed in the menu. Her kids chose a salad (probably smothered in some kind of creamy dressing full of partially hydrogenated oil) and applesauce (probably full of sugar and preservatives) and they lived happily ever after. She says they were fine with their choices “but for a minute there it could have easily went south, no thanks to our server.”

The reason I take issue with this article is because the mother seems to be blaming the server. She wants him to read her mind (hint: it’s a quick read, much like a paperback you buy at the grocery store to read at the beach. It’s got no substance and once you read it, you forget it). Some parents don’t like when we ask them what their child would like.

“Well, my son’s right there, why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I thought that maybe you would like to make his decisions for him since your son looks to be about four fucking years old and he currently has a Crayon stuck up his nose, you asshole.”

Don’t blame the server for offering the one item that probably 99% of the kids choose anyway. It’s not the responsibility of the server to help you figure out what you want your kids to eat. It is his responsibility to alert you to the available options but you need to take some initiative and read the menu too. The mother says that her husband “half-jokingly” told her to get over it but my bet is that there was no half-joking happening. He was serious.

“Honey, get the fuck over it. He offered fries, you said no and now they’re eating fucking salad and applesauce. Just eat your 4-Cheese Mac and Cheese with Honey Pepper Chicken Tenders and shut the fuck up. God, you’re annoying. Everybody hate you, you know that, right? No wonder the kids never want to spend any time with you. And you’re probably going to go home and write an article about this aren’t you? Don’t even deny it. I can see you taking mental notes so you can go home and whine about how terribly you’ve been treated. Again. He just asked if they wanted fries. Who cares?”

I suppose it can be said that the mother overreacted a bit by taking one little question and then writing an article about it, but then again the same could be said of me. I am a professional at making mountains out of molehills and I just turned a whiny Mommy Article into a Bitchy Waiter blog post. Tat for tat. And would you like fries with that?

You can go read the original article here. If you go there and leave a comment, tell them The Bitchy Waiter said hello.

I Picked This Story Just For You (Don’t Eat Boogers)

picking-nose-1

Just don’t eat it.

Boogers. Everybody picks ‘em and everybody has to figure out what to do with them when you pull one out. Let’s have some honest fucking booger talk here. Whether you drop it behind the couch while you’re watching TV, flick it off your finger and hope for the best or wipe it on the back of that bitch’s coat on the 7 train who wouldn’t move her bag off the seat so I could fucking sit down after a long shift, you gotta find a way to get rid of them. (I know, I know, that’s what Kleenex are for but sometimes you just don’t have one.) Twice this week, I have seen people and their need to pick their nose and/or dispose of boogers.

While shopping in a furniture store a few days ago, I am watching two little boys run around the store like chickens with their heads cut off. Their parents are oblivious to the kids and I watch the sales person shoot daggers with his eyes at the kids. I wonder if there is perhaps a Bitchy Furniture Salesman blog somewhere out there. As I peruse dining tables and chairs, I notice that one of the kids has stopped running and screaming like a little asshole and is now standing in a corner rather quietly. Intrigued, I watch him for minute to see what had caused his sudden lack of enthusiasm. He is staring intently at his finger and I think that maybe he has hurt himself which is apt to happen when your parents let you run around a goddamn store without any freaking supervision. He puts his finger in his mouth and then removes it looking smug and satisfied. I continue watching him as he begins picking his nose. “Picking” isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like he is spelunking the last known cavern in the world and anything he finds is going to be worth a great deal of money. He digs and digs until it looks like his finger is going to poke out of his eye socket. When he retrieves his finger, he has the same look on his face that I get when a waitress brings me a spicy margarita. He puts his finger into his mouth and pulls it back out, clean as a whistle. This child is having an afternoon snack of dried mucus that he has pulled from his own nose. No Goldfish, grapes, rasins or Cheerios for this kid, mom, he’s got boogers. I watch him do it two more times but he quits before I think to get my cell phone and make a video for Vine.

Two days later, I am in a restaurant having breakfast. I really like my server; she is cute, funny, efficient and just a little bit sassy. The service moves along flawlessly and I am a very happy customer. After I am done and the plates have been cleared, I sit and wait for my check to be brought to me. As is my custom, I watch the goings on of the restaurant and try to decipher who has the best section and who is the server that everyone likes to work with. You know, just normal “waiter eating out” kind of stuff. From my seat, I can see into a bit of the side stand which is two steps down and around a corner. I can see my waitress standing there in front of what I assume to be a computer. She is busy doing waitress stuff and hopefully printing out my check when I see her finger move towards her nose.

“Maybe her nose is itchy, “ I think.

Well, if any part of her nose is itchy is it is quite clearly the inside part of it. What begins as a simple scratching of the tip of her nose turns into a full out assault on any boogers that have the misfortune of being in this waitress’s nose. She inserts her finger deep into the nostril, tilts her head back and goes to town on it. She is going at it with such force that I think maybe there is a demon inside that nose that needs to be expelled. I can’t see if there is a mirror in front of her but I can easily picture her looking at her own reflection in the cappuccino machine. When she is done with one nostril, she attacks the other with the same vengeance, diving deep with intent and malice. Finally, she is done. I am not sure what she has discovered on the expedition or where she has placed any of her findings. Perhaps they were dropped into a trash basket or wiped underneath a computer shelf. I do not know, nor do I care. I just want my check. Now.

I watch her as she leaves the side stand and goes to a table to clear some plates. She then disappears into the kitchen and returns two minutes later with my check. Thankfully, the check is as booger free as her nose must be and I can only hope that she washed her hands while she was out of my sight. I pay my check and leave her the customary 20% because, despite the nose picking, the service was quite good.

“Have a nice day,” she tells me. “Thank you!”

“You have a nice day too,” I tell her.

She returns to the side stand to either close out my check or go digging for donuts again. Who really knows?

So that’s two different nose-picking experiences I have had in the last four days. I wonder if there will be a third and if there is, will it merit another blog post? It might or it might not. You never can tell. Obviously, I will write about anything. I’m not picky.

A Comment on Comments; Kids Making Messes Edition

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

A few days ago, I was sent a photo of a huge mess left underneath a table by a family of trashy raccoon bitches who had no manners or social graces. The server who sent it to me told me that the bill was $78 and they left him a $10 tip. He tried repeatedly to pre-bus and keep the table clean but the customers insisted that he leave it because they were still “using everything.” When they were finished, the parents did nothing about the insanely dirty floor their kids had left behind. I turned the photo into a meme and posted it on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page and it stirred up some really great comments. Some of those comments need to be discussed. Below, you can see the photo that started the firestorm.

This is not right.

This is not right.

Chris says, “Just shut the fuck up and do what ur suppose to if u don’t like it find another job.” Okay Chris, I am going to respond to this in a way that even you can understand: Fuck u and ur stoopid ass. No, we dont like cleaning up after brats when the parents shud take some responsibility for there kids we dont mind cleaning up after peeple, bcuz its r job, but we dont want 2 get on our hands n knees bcuz the kids dont have no fucking manners.

Joshua says, “Complaining about getting money to do your job is sad and pathetic. Do your job and earn your 10$.” Our job is to take orders, serve food and to make sure the customers have what they need. It is not our job to constantly pick up after children and practically hose down our section when they are done. A restaurant is not a barn and server is not a maid. I think you are sad and pathetic for coming to a site for servers and then trying to act like you have some justification for telling us how to act.

Lizzy says, “Personally, I will never be caught bitching about a 10 dollar tip.” You will hear me bitching about a $10 tip when the tip isn’t enough. Where I work, the average bill is somewhere between $80-100 so I don’t want to see a $10 tip. That would mean that the tip isn’t anywhere close to the 15-20% that I prefer. Keep in mind that we are often paying taxes on our sales regardless of the tip that we receive and then tipping out to the support staff. If I get $10 on a $100 check, once I tip the bartender and the runner and then pay the taxes on what the IRS assumes I make, I don’t have shit. So, yes, you would complain about a $10 tip if you worked someplace where an entrée costs more than $5.99.

Jan says, “Tips are not required So whatever you get better be GRATEFUL. You sound entitled when you are not. If you can’t handle the letdown go to another line of work.”  Jan is from the United Kingdom where tipping is a completely different story. I would be GRATEFUL, Jan,  if you kept your nose in your own business and on your own side of the pond. Entitled is not the right word. Judging by the photo, it was the parents who were entitled. How else would you describe people who assume it’s alright to let their children defile a restaurant like that and then not even try to make up for the amount of effort it takes to clean up after their sorry asses?

James says, “Do your job and shut up.” Fuck you, James.

Charles says, “If you don’t like your damn job, get another one. I’m sick and tired of beople bitching about having to do their job. If it wasen’t for people eating out, you wouldn’t have a job in the first place. I don’t let my son make messes and my tips reflect the service I receive. But quit complaining about doing what you are expected to do.” Look Charles, good for you that you don’t let your son make messes like that. I don’t believe you for a hot second, but good for you for saying it. We are not bitching about doing our job. We are bitching about doing things that are not our job. It’s the job of the parents to control their kids. “Beople” bitch about their jobs, it’s not just servers. And you are correct; if it “wasen’t” for people eating out, there would be no job in the first place. However if people who don’t know how to raise children would stop breeding, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion, would we?

Megan says, “Suck it up move the table back clean that shit and know why you need a higher education! Oh and sorry your $10 tip wasn’t enough, that’s more than 10%. WOW.” Just so you know, Megan, lots of servers have higher educations and wait tables part time for extra money. It’s not just the stupid undereducated people who are bringing your food to you. Many of us are educated and I bet all of us are smart enough to know that 10% is not a decent tip, dumbass.

As always, I appreciate the comments. It may be hard to believe, but I read practically every single one. (It gives me something to do at work…) It gives me joy to be able to reach out and directly respond to some the readers. Thank you for your comments and please feel free to comment as often as you like.

Scoot Your Ass Outta Here

Scoot on out...

Scoot on out…

Some days I have no idea what I am going to write about and then my topic literally rolls into my section and plops down right in front of me.

I am at the club and we have just “opened the room” meaning that customers can now be seated for the show. Typically, we open the showroom about forty-five minutes before show time in order to give customers plenty of time to order their drinks and settle in and me plenty of time to eat my falafel so I can have pristine breath before greeting them. There is a woman sitting in the lobby who has been there for at least twenty minutes, but is not ready to go to her table yet. She is a semi-regular we see every now and then. She is a rather large woman who is mobile thanks only to her electric scooter.

“We can seat you now, ma’am,” says the hostess.

“I’m not ready,” she barks back.

The show is to to begin at 9:30 so at 9:25 she is now ready to be ushered to her seat. I am the only server for this show since the audience is small enough for me to handle it all on my own. My coworker is finishing up her side work so she can leave early but she is still in the room only minutes away from leaving for the night. The lady on wheels flags her down.

“I’m dying of thirst,” she says.

I hate when people say that they are dying of something. We are all dying of something, be it old age, natural causes or otherwise, but no one who is sitting in restaurant is dying of thirst.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she says and she points her stubby little fingers at a glass of beer on a nearby table. The beer is a Stella Artois but it has been poured into an Amstel Light glass. Unsure if she wants a Stella or a Amstel, Nadine asks her which she would like.

“I want what he’s having!”

Fine, a Stella it is. Ten minutes after the show has started, the woman flags me down and I approach her table.

“I’m starving to death,” she says.

There is no way in hell this woman is anywhere close to starving to death. There are probably enough crumbs from previous meals embedded in her sweatshirt to feed a family of four for several days.

“Yes, ma’am, what would you like?”

She shrugs her shoulders which is probably a monumental effort for her and raises her arms up in the air, palms upward as if I have just asked her to tell me the square root of 666 (it’s 25.8069758011 which is also the number of bags she has hanging off her, shopping bags, back packs, fanny packs…). I hand her the menu that is sitting in front of her and let her know I will be back in a  couple of minutes to see what she’d like.

She eventually decides on an antipasto plate and a bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, which is about 75% mayo so a most excellent choice for anyone who is looking to become even less mobile and more dependent on four heavily taxed wheels to get you around. When it comes time to give her the check, the total is almost $80. (Remember, there is a cover charge on there as well.) She pulls a credit card out of one of her many bags and I go to swipe it.

Declined.

I go to give her the news and she is decidedly non-plussed about it.

“Oh, shoot, someone stole my identity so I can’t remember which card is good and which card is bad.”

I wonder who it was that stole her identity and then wonder how long it took them to give it back to her once they realized who they had become.

“Try this one. Wait is that the same card?”

“Yes, ma’am, both of those cards have the same number on them.”

“Then try this one.”

Again, I go swipe the card. Declined.

“Sorry, this one didn’t go through either,” I say, thinking that this bitch is trying to scam us.

“How about this one,” she says and hands me yet another credit card. It too is declined.

Three strikes your out, lady. “I’m sorry, this one was also declined.”

“Oh dear, what am I going to do? I’m so embarrassed.”

So apparently, having three different credit cards declined is embarrassing but having hair where a nest of squirrels would feel quite comfortable is not. I send my manager over to talk to her because I am officially done with her. He agrees that she can come in the next day to pay her check and she offers to leave her license as collateral.

“That’s okay,” he says. “We know you come in here often enough.”

“But you don’t know where I live,” she counters.

“I assume it’s underneath some bridge where you make people answer riddles before they cross,” I say under my breath.
Her check is voided and she promises she will be back the next day at 5:00 to pay her check. We watch her roll out without a thank you or any kind of effort given to leave a tip because most trolls carry no cash. That was three days ago. We have yet to see her again so I am still waiting for my tip. She better hope that she doesn’t try to come back in to see another show unless we can get payment for that check and show us a a stack of cash in her grubby little grease-covered palms. Her credit is no good with Visa, Master Card, Discover or The Bitchy Waiter.

Overheard in the Restaurant

george-marks-businessman-cupping-ear-to-hear

Your waiter hears everything.

As we zoom by our tables in the height of a lunch or dinner rush, a good server always has his ears open in case there is a guest who needs something. It’s easy to impress a customer if you can bring them something that they haven’t even asked for yet. Say you hear out of your peripheral audio (that’s not even a real phrase, but you know what I mean…) someone say, “I could kinda use some more ketchup” and then one minute later you show up with some.

“Oh, my God, I was just about to ask you for that, how did you know?” they will exclaim.

“I’m good. I’m real good,” you can say back.

Keeping your ears open also means that it is impossible to not catch little snippets of conversations that our customers are having. It’s not that we want to hear every little thing that’s being discussed, we just can’t help it. Believe me, if I could turn off my hearing whenever I wanted to, I would turn it off the second I set foot onto the 7 train every morning so I don’t have to listen to that goddamn mariachi band and that old lady who plays La Cucaracha on her fucking recorder and asks for donations. But I can’t turn off my hearing so I hear every single things that slides out of the mouths of my customers.

I decided to start taking notes of the most random things that customers say. Most people don’t seem to be aware or simply do not care that I can pretty much hear everything that they are talking about. Over the course of two weeks, these are my favorite random snippets that I overheard at the restaurant:

  • A lady can be a bartender? I thought they could only be nurses. Okay, this was a kid and it was kinda cute, but what kind of life is he living that he thinks that women have only one occupational option?
  • I want a ship with a bowling alley and a microwave. I have no idea what they were talking about. Maybe a cruise ship they are considering taking a trip on or perhaps it’s someone really rich who is shopping around for a new yacht and they just happened to be slumming in my dump of a restaurant.
  • He wants me to pierce his balls. Who ever said romance is dead?
  • Or that you went for an STD test and they found something. I think they were trying to come up with an excuse to get out of work the next day, but it again makes me question who thinks that romance is not alive and well and living at Table 8.
  • One time he put his hands down my pants at karaoke. Actually, all of this sound romantic.
  • You know what I love? Smelling things. This too sounds romantic, if it’s in the right context, like say, while holding a single red rose surrounded by baby’s breath or right after you do the swab test to make sure someone is clean enough to go down on. (That’s for you, Scott.)
  • With the cow, it’s actually the casing I’m allergic to. Okay, the romance is officially dead.
  • I kinda miss the radio. You never got what you wanted but you never knew what you were gonna get. This is so deep, like it should be printed on a t-shirt and worn by a hipster in Williamsburg.
  • Is he like Asperger-sy? Three women sitting at the booth talking about the dates they have had from OK-Cupid. “Hi, I’m a Gemini. I like puppies, 80’s music and long walks on the beach. I’m kinda Asperger-sy though so there’s that.”
  • Do you guys play Bingo? I should have stuck around to hear the answer because if the answer was “yes” I need to know if they need a new best friend because I fucking love Bingo!
  • I have never heard another human being say they don’t like art. That makes me so sad. This, as opposed to all the animals of the world she has heard say they don’t like art.

I guess customers tend to forget that their servers have ears that we can’t turn off even though we wish we could. After I heard the woman talk about being allergic to cow casing, I wanted to stick a  butter knife down my ear canal to keep myself from hearing anymore about it but I knew it would make a big fucking mess and it would just be more crap for me to clean up so I didn’t.

What about you guys? What are some of the most random snippets of conversation you have ever heard while at one of your tables?

 

edit: Ah, it’s it’s casein, not casing. That makes sense now. Could not understand why she would be allergic to the casing of a cow. I had in my head she was allergic to some kind of stomach lining… That’s what I get for eavesdropping. Than you, Julie and Snoop Beaver.  -BW

Public Enemy Number One: Romeo Rose

Romeo Rose

Romeo Rose

A couple of days ago, I was alerted to the beauty that is known as Romeo Rose. He is one of America’s top bachelors and lives in Austin, Texas. He has slowly crawled his way up to D-List celebrity status (which is still about ten letters higher than me…) by spewing out ridiculous racist and misogynistic comments on his Twitter and Facebook pages. His Twitter account is currently disabled and his Facebook page seems to come and go depending on the amount of heat he is receiving. He caught my attention last week when he released a ten-minute long video on You Tube explaining why he never leaves tips for servers. You can watch it here but it’s ten minutes of rambling repetition and you will never get those ten minutes of your life back, so let me paraphrase it for you:

“I don’t tip. I don’t care. I don’t tip. I don’t care. I have big teeth. I don’t tip. Outback Steakhouse. Waiters are stupid.”

Romeo Rose (real name, Larry Busby) is running for mayor of the fine town of Austin which is a mighty damn shame because I have family there but there is not a chance in hell he will even make it onto the ballot, so whatever. On his Facebook page this week, he was bragging about how he went to a FINE UPSCALE restaurant (read: it had tablecloths and he didn’t order his food through a speaker while sitting in his Ford Festiva) and they comped him a  bunch of food because he is “Austin royalty.” Supposedly, once they heard he was running for mayor, they offered him anything he wants “on the house.” According to his Facebook post, he was given appetizers, dessert and four entrees. In the comments section, someone asks him if he left a tip and he replies, “Of course not.”

cheap fuck

cheap fuck

This man is Public Enemy Number One when it comes to those of us in the food service industry. Even if he had left a tip, I still can’t handle a person who holds their fork like a fucking Neanderthal. Seriously, he is grasping it as if he thinks someone is going to yank it out of his hand at any moment which could be the case if the server knew who he was. And why did he need four entrees? Greedy bitch, that Romeo. I read on his blog that he is broke and was actually asking people to help him pay his electric bill so maybe he was trying stock up on food since he may not get another chance to eat again for a while. Like a squirrel storing nuts in a tree, Romeo Rose crammed as much pasta into his face as possible. Lord knows if he took out just one incisor he would have enough room to store three days worth of carbs.

seriously?

seriously?

I get what this man is doing because it isn’t that far off from what I do plenty of times: stir the pot to get publicity and feed your ego. I get it. What I don’t get is why he seems so proud of his ideas. How can someone be such a fucking dumb piece of shit and say what he says?  Some of his Tweets are as follows:

It’s a fact, most women who are raped were drunk and dressed like a slut. They put themselves in that position and then whine about it later.

I specialise (sic) in WHITE weddings, no blacks because blacks are not photogenic haha!

A womans (sic) job is to cook, clean, provide sex, and OBEY.

That’s right ladies, he’s single. I hesitated writing about this man because I wasn’t sure I wanted to give him any more attention, but when he so proudly went to a restaurant to take advantage of their offer of free food and then stiffed the servers, it got personal. I try to represent what so many servers think and give voice to all of us, so here it goes:

Hey, Romeo Rose, no server wants you in his or her station. We have excellent memories and if we can remember that Table 23 asked for the dressing on the side what makes you think we won’t remember your mug taking up space at our table. I am fairly certain that you can eat at each restaurant only one time in your life because you know that  if you were to go back, every server there would remember you and you would get the service you deserve. I’m not saying that servers are spitting in your food because 99.9% of servers are too good for that. What I am saying is that servers may simply refuse to serve you. Every restaurant has the right to refuse service to anyone they don’t want to serve and if you consistently treat restaurant staff the way you claim to, then eventually, you are going to have no place to eat out.

If I know the type of man that Romeo Rose is, he has a Google alert on himself and he will see this blog and get a big ol’ Romeo Boner about seeing his name on another website. Hello, Romeo. Please let us all know when Twitter lets you have another account because I want to follow you so I can see what other verbal diarrhea falls out of your mouth. You’re a train wreck and I will keep watching you the same way I watch videos on YouTube of people falling down. I know it’s not right, but I just can’t help but stare.

Servers, please share this blog post so that every server in Austin will be able to identify this man. As soon as he gallops into their section, they can throw him a bale of hay and an apple and call it a day.

I can't.

I can’t.

edit:  The restaurant he went to eat in, Sagra, has issued a statement on their Facebook page:

Hi everyone-We would like to set the record straight as there have been some rumors this morning about Romeo Rose coming into Sagra and getting a free meal. These statements are completely untrue- while Romeo did come into Sagra, we did not comp any part of his meal, and until this morning we did not realize who he was or greet him personally. He came in with a friend, and they paid with a Groupon and credit card, and did leave a tip for the waiter.

We are very confused as to why Romeo would post these inaccurate statements, but rest assured we treat all of our guests equally and with respect at Sagra.

Clearly, Romeo is crazy.