On Your Mark. Get set. Go.

Today is the big day. My new career as a cocktail server begins. After hours upon hours of highly intensive training with skilled professionals who know the ins and outs of serving liquid libations, I am ready to have my first very own shift at the new job. I am freaking out. I dreamed about it the other night too. One of those horrible waiting tables dreams that all servers have. You know the one: where you have a whole giant restaurant as your station and every single table is wanting your attention. They all need drinks refilled and food orders to be taken and people want their checks. You have about twenty credit cards to ring in and you can’t get caught up at all and you wake up covered in sweat. I hate that. Because in real life if I get that far into the weeds, I just go to the bathroom, wash my face, make a phone call, take a deep breath and figure “who gives a fuck?” But in the dreams for some reason I actually care. Hmmm, weird. Hopefully during my first real shift all my training will come to the forefront and make me a server superstar.

I trained for three shifts. For no pay. It’s such a drag to be the trailer because you do all the dirty work while the server you follow gets half the workload and all the tips. The first night they threw me a twenty dollar bill and a glass of wine so I felt like it was a real score. Little do they know I would have done it for the wine alone. The job definitely has some real potential and can I just reiterate how satisfying it is to have no kitchen? Really really satisfying. The food is minimal and all we have to do is throw some over-priced dip on a plate, pop it in the microwave, serve it and ring it in. Cha ching!

Surely after a few days of serving potent potables, new stories will come my way that I shall pass on. Since this is a new job, I have tried my hardest to conceal the Bitchy Waiter that lies beneath the surface. But he is there. Lurking in the shadows of glass racks and giant containers of Goldfish, he patiently waits for the perfect moment to emerge. When will someone push the button? That button that makes him think, “this lady needs a fucking punch in the cunt.” Wish me luck. I trudge ahead to make life better for the world, one table at a time.


Rest in Peace

Now that I have earned gainful employment at a new establishment, I finally feel free to write about my last job and how I was unceremoniously dumped from it. I won’t say the name of the place because that would be completely unprofessional, but they really acted like a total piece of shit. Well, when I say “they” I really mean the owner. My actual managers were all pretty cool and so were the people I worked with except for one guy. Man, this guy was a total fruit loop and really really old. (Hey, Bill! Luv ya!)

I gave VYNL on the Upper East Side the best eleven months of my life. I was on time, respectful, fastidious, reliable and loyal. And if you are a frequent reader of this blog, you know how well I treated my tables. For the last three months rumors were swirling that we would be closing but no one would confirm or deny. We were told that maybe the restaurant would close for two weeks to remodel and then reopen as a Mexican food restaurant, but we would all still have jobs. And in the two weeks that we would be closed, they would do their best to find us shifts in some of the other restaurants that the asshole owner owned. Or maybe they would give us a stipend to tide us over while the remodel happened. That talk slowly faded away. Because the owner is an asshole.

After weeks of rumors the most persistent one was that we would close by the end of August. Here it was the middle of the month and we still had no official word. So I called the corporate office.

“Thank you for calling Chowdown Inc, can I help you?”

“Uh, hi. My name is [The Bitchy Waiter] and I work at VYNL Second Avenue. I keep hearing that we are closing next week but no one will tell me if that’s true. Since I’ve worked there for almost a year, I feel like I should know if I will be unemployed next week. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Pause. Pause. “I dunno. I haven’t heard anything about the restaurant closing.”

“Really?” I say incredulously. “Because I would think if one of your five restaurants were closing then if anyone would know about it, it would be the corporate office. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Have you asked you manager about it,” she asked me. Like I hadn’t thought of that brilliant idea.

“Yeah, I did. They say they don’t know either and I don’t know if they really don’t know or they’re just supposed to say they don’t know. You know? Can you understand my frustration?”

Pause. “You should ask John about this.” John is the asshole owner who had avoided coming into our location for the last few weeks because he knew we would ask him this very question.

I told her I would ask John. “Can I have his number?”

Pause. Pause. “I don’t know it.” Seriously? This bitch thinks I believe that she doesn’t have the number for her boss who is the president and owner of the company that she works for? She doesn’t know how to reach him? It must make it really difficult to give him his messages, poor thing. “I can send you to his voice mail,” she eeks out.

So I left him a completely professional voice mail-for real, totally professional- about how I just kinda needed to know if I should be looking for a job and could he please call me back when he gets a chance and all that. He didn’t call back. So I called back two days later and left another really nice voice mail which he didn’t return either. Because he’s an asshole.

A few days later we were finally told. On Thursday they informed us that we would be closing and our last day would be Sunday. They gave us three whole days of notice and I only had one shift left. On my last day we were told not to tell any of our tables that we were closing and reopening later. They didn’t want customers to know that it would be the same company with a different name and menu. I could totally respect that so I told every single table that we were closing and we were reopening later but it would be the same company with a different name and menu. I also told every table how little notice they gave us because I was totally playing the sympathy card. One regular we called Coach (hated him) overheard me telling someone we were closing in two days. His response? “Oh no! My turkey burger!” My response? “Oh no, my job!” That shut him up.

Two week later, I had not received my last paycheck, so I made a call to the corporate office. The clueless wonder of a receptionist said that she thinks they were mailed to another restaurant for us to go pick them up. Nevermind I didn’t work at that restaurant and was never told that was where my check would be. “I think they were going to see if anyone came to pick them up and if they didn’t they would mail them out to you.”

I responded. “Why would I go to a restaurant I have never worked at to get my final check after I was fired? I don’t wanna sit around for three weeks and wait until someone finally decides to put a stamp on my paycheck. Do me a favor. Call them and ask them to mail me my check tomorrow, please.” I got my check two days later.

And VYNL Second Avenue can eat it. Along with the owner, John. They both suck.

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Two Year Old Bitch in England

I may have found my new hero. Someone sent me a story (holla out to Bonnie) about a something that happened somewhere called Hallifax West Yorkshire in England-land. The link is at the bottom of the page but here is the gist of it written in a much more entertaining way and with much worse grammar.

Some family went to the grand opening of a Mexican restaurant and brought with them, as parents are apt to do, their two-year old child, Molly. Jeez, do parents have to take their kids everywhere? It’s so annoying. The parents were obviously pretty stupid because they were going to a Mexican restaurant. In England. What the fuck is that? Chicken enchiladas with a side of scone? And English Breakfast margaritas? Whatever. I guess the restaurant was really slammed, or as they say in the Queen’s English, “bartle bagged.” (I totally made that up.) The family had to wait a long time for their food and I guess (say this with a Cockney accent) the lit’le tyke got a might impatient waitin’ for ‘er food and threw a bit o’ a ‘issy fit. (You can stop with the Cockney accent. You’re really bad at it.) The article doesn’t say exactly what Molly did other than get a bit “moany” and “grumbly” but I am pretty sure I know how she behaved. She wanted to wander around the restaurant and get in people’s way and annoy other people who do not have kids. When her “mum” made her sit down, Molly began to scream at the top of her lungs and throw sugar packets and bread pudding spoons all over the fucking place. When the dad threatened to spank her arse, she cried until the food finally arrived making the waiter and every table around her hate dear sweet adorable Molly.

When they got the check they noticed at the bottom of it that something had been typed in underneath the food. It said, “thankyyou littell fucker.” Now even though there are some points deducted for spelling, it is clear what was being said. The check called Molly a little fucker. Bravo! Here ye here ye! My hero. This server is Queen of all Bitchy Waiters. Capital B. Capital W. Understandably, the family got in a tizzy for insulting their little precious bundle of cunt and demanded an apology and blah blah blah blah. I am sure they got the apology and probably a free order of fish n chips quesadillas too. The sad thing is the person responsible for the “offensive” remark got fired. Or “sacked” as they say they across the pond. The server was just speaking the truth. Had she lived in America maybe she could have stood behind the freedom of speech and all that crap, but seeing that she lived in jolly old England, they fired her British ass. Hopefully, that server will move on to her next position having learned something from her mistake. You can never insult the customer. What I mean is you can never insult the customer where they will find out about it. Say it in the kitchen, write on your pad, think it in your head. Do not print it on their check. Amateur.



The skies opened up today. Grey clouds parted and sun shone through as the finger of God reached down to touch me gently on the forehead. He brushed the hair and sleep out of my eyes and and said unto me, “Bitch, get your ass up. You gotta go to work today.” Yes, someone swallowed all the bullshit that spewed out of my mouth during a job interview and they gave me a starting date for employment. The Bitchy Waiter serves again.

Today will be my trailing shift to see if the restaurant and I are a good fit. Basically, I will follow a server around while he tells me the ins and outs of the job and then at the end of the day I will do all his crappiest sidework for him and get no tips. Hopefully, there will be some minimum wage involved, but you just never know. Sometimes they will pay you with a meal or just a big hearty “thanks, but no thanks.” But my new job is not in a restaurant. It is in a swanky cabaret club where I will be serving cocktails to poor schlubs who have to meet the two-drink minimum while they listen to a show. When I say swanky I mean swanky. Like they have candles and shit. And they don’t have a kitchen which sorta gives me a semi-hard-on of excitement. Any food that is ordered is of the light fare variety and is catered in. Tingles of joy run down my spine at having no ketchup bottles in my immediate future. Now don’t get me wrong. This is a trailing shift and could be my last one if they decide that I suck. At waiting tables, I mean. Or maybe I will get there and realize that the tips are really really bad and I have to be there for nine hours to walk with only $40. Only time will tell.

But this could be the beginning of a new dawn. An age where I enjoy carrying trays of over priced cocktails and I look forward to slicing fruit. I may have found my new calling as a cocktail server. I see myself eagerly trotting to work each night giddy with anticipation to wait tables because my new place of employment treats me with respect and the customers all love how I do my job and they throw piles of twenty dollar bills at me. I would then be known as The Happy Waiter or The Satisfied Waiter or The Euphoric Waiter. Or it could just be the same ol’ same ol’ job of waiting tables and The Bitchy Waiter will reign supreme forever and ever.




It has been brought to my attention that Suze Orman went onto the Oprah Winfrey show some time ago to give some sound financial advice to all the Oprah-ites who bow down to the feet of the great and powerful O. Suze Orman is the financial guru who has all the answers in the world when it comes to saving money and making money work for you. If you had any money to begin with, that is. Her sage wisdom that she passed on to people was apparently to reach into my pocket and take the spare change from it and then put it in their own. Uh huh, Suze told people to rape me hard and true, and not in a good way. She suggested that in order to save money in these uncertain economic times people should only go out to dinner once a month. Okey dokey, Suze Whoreman, good advice. I do the same thing when I am pinching pennies. Then she said that if you do go out, then skip the appetizer. Alright, Oozie Orman, I can see your point. I have done that as well. Then the bitch went one step too far. She said that when it comes time to tip you should just leave 10% instead of 15%. What is this Oozing Whoremonger of a bitch telling people to do? First of all, 15% is not enough of a tip; I want 20%. But she is telling people to leave 10%. Somebody needs to hold me down because I want to stalk this bitch and strangle her with her own ugly clothes. I want to pull out every one of her too-white tooth out of her head and then I want to do the same thing to the teeth in her vag. I want to take that thumb that she is always thumbs-upping with and stick it up her ass.

Let’s just say I sell $1000 worth of food one night. If people leave 15% I would get $150 but then tip out the busser and bartender 3% of sales which would be $30 letting me walk with $120. If people left 10%, then I would only walk out with $70 because I would have to tip out on my sales regardless of what I made in tips. That is a big difference, Suze. Forty dollars less a night times five nights is a difference of $200 a week or $800 dollars in one month! Meanwhile, the douchebag that took her advice and only goes out to eat once a month and leaves only 10%? How does it affect him? Let’s say the bill for him and his ugly fat girlfriend was $40. He leaves four dollars instead of six dollars saving him a whopping two dollars for that month. Or in other words, $24 for the year. Wow, what a difference that makes for him. Just by listening to that Pud Muncher, Suze Orman, he saved twenty-four whole fucking dollars in a whole year while I was robbed of $9,600.

Good advice. Thanks, Oprah for letting that horrid woman onto your show to spew such utter nonsense to the people who will no doubt take the pearls of wisdom to their pocketbooks. Suze Orman better watch it. If she turns up in my station some day, I hope she likes the taste of bacteria. Because I will dig to the bottom of the ice machine and find some slimy ass black mold and drop it right into her glass of cunt juice, or whatever the hell she orders to drink. Fellow waiters, I advise you to do the same.


Tip Me

The Bitchy Waiter is needing some tips. I wonder how much money one of those people makes who has the cardboard sign and sits by the subway. Their sign always says “stranded in New York, baby on the way” or “lost everything in fire, please help” or “need money to buy beer.” If I lived in a regular city maybe I could invest in a squeegee and wash the windshields of cars stopped at lights. Or have a garage sale, maybe. But I don’t live in a regular city. I live in (supposebly) the greatest city in the world. A city where dreams come true and fortunes are made. The Big Apple. New York City! It’s also a city that has about umpteen million restaurants that are all completely staffed and won’t hire me. For the life of me, I can’t understand why I can’t find a decent waiting job. Maybe I should take my www.thebitchywaiter.com off of my resume, I dunno. Nah, that can’t be it. It must be because they already have a bevy of servers with attitudes just as fine as mine and cannot afford to take on one more. Surely, that’s it.

Eventually something will come along that doesn’t involve overnight travel or four interviews or giving massages to the owner’s wife’s bunion covered feet. In the meantime, help a brother out…

Just click it…