It’s a Thin Line Between Love and Hate

Many if us who work in restaurants have a love/hate relationship with our customers. On the one hand, we know that if it wasn’t for paying customers who come into our restaurants to enjoy a night out of dining we wouldn’t have a job. On the other hand, people suck. There are two men who come into my restaurant semi-regularly and each time I see them, I struggle to keep my face from revealing my true emotions. If ever there was a reason for me to use Botox, this would be it. I smile, say hello and go into hyper-server mode in order to get through the next hour with them. The last time they were in, I put some notes down on a bev nap about what it is about them that irks me so.

  1. They always order their food directly from our open kitchen. One time I described the special in great detail, answering a multitude of questions about the type of fish and how it was prepared. After he finally exhausted my knowledge about a fucking catfish fillet and some corn succotash, he decided to order it. When I rang it in, the cook asked me if this was another order for the special or was it for the guy at Table 15. Turns out, he had already ordered the special ten minutes earlier and was just wasting my time asking questions he either already had the answer to or didn’t care about. I hate them.
  2. They call me baby. Maybe it’s because they’re gay and they know I’m gay so they feel comfortable referring to me that way, but it makes me feel gross. And the way they say the word “baby” sounds like how Jackée Harry would say “Mary” on 227. I imagine they’re the kind of people who call each other Mami and Papi while making sweet love on their waterbed as Barry Manilow croons “Mandy” in the background. “Baby, can I have another glass of wine?” “Thank you for the extra napkins, baby.” “Oh, baby, can I get the check?” I hate them.
  3. They bring in their “service dog.” We all know that fleabag isn’t a service animal and it’s not emotionally supporting anyone. It sits there under the booth on its disgusting towel and licks its ass the whole time. And don’t think I don’t see you feeding it. The only time that dog pulls itself away from the intense focus of self ass licking is when you feed it a bite of roasted chicken with your fingers that you then use to feed yourself. You’re basically tasting your dog’s ass and I can’t freaking handle it. I hate them.
  4. They always want extra tentacles in their calamari. I don’t begrudge anyone for having a preference of tentacles over rings when eating calamari, but expecting the kitchen to sort through a bowl of raw calamari just so you can have a 70/30 ratio of tentacles and rings is a bit much. Just eat the calamari, guys. If your dog can eat its on ass, you can surely eat some calamari rings. I hate them.
  5. They walk through the restaurant like they own the place. It’s as if they are holding court at Table 15 and they think everyone else at the restaurant should be grateful for their presence. Never mind that Table 15 is a booth for at least four people and they always want to sit there, ignoring all the two-tops. I suppose they want the booth so that their dog has a place to stretch out as it farts and wheezes in between ass licks and bites of roasted chicken. I hate them.
  1. They always tip 25%. I love them.
  2. They always tip 25%. I love them.
  3. They always tip 25%. I love them.
  4. They always tip 25%. I love them.
  5. They always tip 25%. I love them.

I wait tables and bitch about it on my blog, The Bitchy Waiter.

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