The Meatball Lady at Table 2

I don’t often write about the specifics at my job anymore because the majority of my customers are regulars who know about my blog and book. I seldom want to take the chance that someone will read something about themselves that paints them in a less than positive way. Well, let me get out my paints and brushes because the woman at Table 2 deserves a an oil portrait of her annoyingness.

She comes in regularly enough that we call her Meatball lady. We call her this because she once came into the restaurant and told us she wanted meatballs. Now, she comes in all the time and knows damn well we don’t have any fucking meatballs on the menu, but bitch orders meatballs.

“We don’t have meatballs,” says the server.

“I know, but can’t you just make them for me? I really feel like having meatballs tonight.”

Does she think she’s at at her great-grandma Rosa Maria Italiano’s house in Naples who can just whips out her balls at the drop of a hat? ((Shout out to my friend Tom in West Springfield, Ma who does exactly that!)

The servers tells the cook who decides to take a hamburger patty, break it up, roll it up, throw it on a skillet and call it a meatball. There is absolutely no spice added to it whatsoever. She loves it.

“These are so good,” she says. “You should put them on the menu.”

Umm, we do bitch. They’re called hamburgers.

Anyway, she reemerged from her pit of misery this week to sit at Table 2 and bless me with her eternal rays of sunshine.

“I’ll have the Passion Fruit Spritzer,” she tells me.

“Oh, I’m sorry we took that off the menu and we don’t have that anymore.”

She is obviously unhappy about this menu decision and rolls her eyes and sighs simultaneously. “It’s off the menu? Like since last week? I just had it a few days ago.”

“Actually, it’s been off the menu for about three weeks, but we still had some passion fruit puree so we were still able to make it, but now we are out of it.”

She sighs and rolls again. “Fine. I’ll just have a Sprite. My stomach doesn’t feel good.”

My thought is that her stomach is tired of listening to her complain and simply wants to get away from her and what she is feeling is her abdomen struggling to keep her innards intact.

“Oh, I’m sorry you don’t feel well. I have ginger ale or seltzer too.”

“Sprite,” she tells me through gritted teeth. “I want soup, but is beet soup the only one you have today?”

“Yes, it’s our soup of the day, roasted beet soup.”

“I really wanted soup because I don’t feel good, but I don’t like beets.”

“Yeah, that’s the only one we have.”

“I hate beets.”

“Yeah, me too. I don’t even like serving them to people. So no beet soup then. That’s good for both of us.”

She informs me that she will need some time to decide what to order because she needs something that will help her ailing stomach feel better. I go get her sugar-filled Sprite and return a few minutes later and she is now ready to order.

“I’ll have the fried cod cakes and a caesar salad.”

I can practically hear her stomach questioning her choices:

“Hold up, Meatball Lady! I’m all upset down here and you’re about to drop in some fried fish and a heavily dressed salad with cheese? C’mon! Help me out here. Order some bread or get me a fucking cracker and let’s go home! Cod cakes with tartar sauce? This is not gonna be good and I think we’re gonna be sitting on the toilet all night. I swear to god I hate you. The next time you take a dump, my plan is to exit your body. I am going to convince your body to shit out your own stomach so I can live my life without having to deal with you anymore. Flush me down the toilet and let me take my chances in the sewer. No wonder your waiter hates you!”

She eats her meal, all the while acting like she is doing me a fucking favor by eating it. No, it’s not a passion fruit spritzer and a bowl of chicken noodle soup, but it is what you ordered, Meatball Lady. It’s a restaurant and you have to at least try to look at the menu and find something you like. Regretfully, we made you meatballs once, but don’t keep coming in and thinking that the menu is a mere suggestion of what we have to offer. It IS what we have to offer. Look at it, pick something, eat it and stop with the complaining.

And if you happen to read this, it’s all in good fun, right? Fun!


  1. Rachel
  2. Karl Kolchak

Leave a Reply

I want two things: a shift drink and your email address!

Someday, if I ever get my act together, I might send out a weekly newsletter about the wonderful goings on of the restaurant industry. Or maybe I won't.