Read, People! Just Read!

I want people to take a mother fucking eye exam to sit in my station. Too many times, people claim they can’t read the check or read the menu. They probably can’t read the expression on my face either which is saying “shut the fuck up.” Or maybe it’s not an eye exam they need, it’s the GED or high school fucking diploma that they missed out on that will explain their sheer stupid ass-ness.

This man was in my station to see the show last week. He seemed a bit odd. Like the kinda guy that sits in his room all day and looks at internet porn. Okay, that statement just described me and half of the people who are reading this blog, but you know what I mean. The creepy kind of person that sits in his room all day and looks at internet porn. He had beady little eyes, a comb-over, some sort of sinus issue and a hunchy kind of back. I asked him what he wanted for the first of his two beverages and he sighed and said “uh, (sniff sniff) I dunno. I don’t drink alcohol.” He said it all whiny and shit. I never said he had to drink alcohol, anyway. So he ordered a cranberry and orange juice combo because I guess he figured he was in a club so why not live it up. Get cranberry and orange juice! Halfway through the show I asked him if he wanted his second drink to be the same wild and crazy beverage as his first and he said no. Fine with me.

End of the show. I gave him his check. It had a ten dollar cover charge for the singer, a five dollar charge for his mocktail and a five dollar minimum charge since he requested to not have the second drink. His total was $21.78. Porno Pervy pulls out a ten dollar bill. Without looking, I picked up his check before I realized how lacking it was in funds. I went back to him and told him that I needed more money from his ass.

“But why?” he whined. “All I had was one juice (sniff sniff). A juice is more than ten dollars?”

I explained to him that there was a cover charge and a two drink minimum which is what his seating pass clearly stated. He told me he never read it because it was too dark. “And I didn’t know there was a cover charge.” I don’t know what his excuse was for not hearing it as the host sat him and as I told him again when I took his order. He then laid down a twenty dollar bill for his $21.78 tab. Again, read the check.

“Almost there,” I said. “Seventy-eight more cents and we’ll have it.” He pulled a dollar out of his pocket and I could see the sad look on his face as he realized that dollar bill was not going into the panties of some tired ass pole dancer later that night. I gave him his twenty-two cents back and he put it in his pocket.

No tip for Bitchy Waiter. All because this twat couldn’t comprehend the writing that explained what it cost to be in the show. A cabaret club and he didn’t know there was a cover charge? Nothing in New York City is free. Read the fine print.

Dear Anonymous,

I wanted to thank you for your comment on the last post regarding ice machines. Since you opted to submit your thoughts anonymously, I am forced to thank you publicly. For those who missed the keen insight of this dear reader, here is what Anonymous had to say:

Get a different job. Obviously you are to stupid to work in the Bar/Restaurant industry….Ice machines are loud cumbersome but oh so necessary machines. I suggest finding employment in an office where they give you a cubicle with all you need right there so you won’t have to move your fat lazy ass! Oh, and bring your own ice water!!!

Dear sweet, addled Anonymous. Surely you must recognize sarcasm. You don’t really expect that I want an ice machine to be suspended over a bar so that the ice can fall directly into the bin. Do you really think I want that and expect it to happen? You dear, dear, sweet person. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you would know that all of my writing is to be taken with a grain of salt and with tongue placed firmly in cheek.

One more thing you should know. You do not know the difference between the words “to” and “too” so I placed a link for you to check out after you read this. I think it will help you in the future when you want to put your two cents in.

Thanks for reading. And I am not fat. Lazy, yes. Fat, no.

This may help your spelling and grammar issues, Anonymous.

Frozen Water is the Bane of My Existence

Anyone who works in a restaurant probably has the same feelings that I do about restocking the ice bin. It is a huge pain in the ass. Why is ice so fucking heavy, anyway? The ice bin is a big slimy wet dank metal cube that is forever needing my attention and I am sick of dealing with it. I want to move to Europe where they all like everything without the ice so I can ignore the evil that is frozen water cubes.

If I ever own or design a restaurant I want to make sure the ice machine is close to the ice bin. On second thought, if I ever own or design a restaurant, someone please either wake me up from the nightmare I’m having or shoot me in the back of the head. In every place I have ever worked, the ice machine is about twenty blocks away from where the ice needs to be used. As I stocked the ice last time at my job I began to contemplate how completely inconvenient the location of the ice maker is. First off, you have to fill this giant one-handled bucket with ice three times in order to get enough ice to last the evening. The ice maker is in this teeny tiny narrow closet. After bucket number one is filled, I have to back up to get out of the room and shimmy through the door because it won’t stay open on its on. I then have to lug the bucket around a crowded corner where there are glass racks stored and then go through a swinging door. A swinging door like in an old timey western saloon kind of place. You know what I mean? Then I have to get through another doorway and then go upstairs to the bar. This must be done three times. What the fuck? Yeah, don’t put the ice machine someplace where it is convenient or anything, it’s no problem. Fuckers.

At my last job, (VYNL Second Avenue in NYC. The owner is a prick.) the ice machine was also downstairs. Really steep metal stairs that I fell down once and busted my skinny ass on. There, we had to fill up a total of four buckets and make two trips up the stairs of death with a bucket in each hand, risking life and limb just so those Upper East Side bitches could have ice in their diet Cokes with lemon. Again, why not put the fucking ice machine nearby? At the job before that (Marriott, Brooklyn. Holla!) the ice machine was literally in a different part of the hotel. Like it was so far away we had to roll a trolley there and load it up with ice and then roll it back to the restaurant. Like it was so fucking far away you had to get a goddamn bus transfer to get back. Once more, in-fucking-convenient.

My solution? First, I propose that we make a big sign to hang on the door of the restaurant that says “Ice is Out of Order.” If that is unacceptable, then why not just put the ice maker directly over the ice bin at the bar so that as the ice is made, it can just tumble directly into the desired location? It would be like
Manna from Heaven or the Nectar of the Gods. Except it would just be ice. That I don’t have to carry.


The Passion in Her Touch

I was fondled at work this week. Well, sort of. Let us look at this post as a creative writing exercise. I will begin with the story exactly as it happened and at some point I will switch it to complete fiction and you see if you can tell when it switched from story telling to a big fat fucking bullshit lie.

It was a dark and stormy night on Sunday. The north wind was blowing and the temperature had dropped to a chilly 45 degrees. I made my way into the club buffering the wind with my hooded sweatshirt. I punched in and got ready for a three-show night. “It’s gonna be a tough night, ” I said to no one in particular as I wiped down tables and prepared the candles. The first show was a jazz singer who was ready to wail and blow the roof off the joint. Her audience was light but enthusiastic. I took the drink orders before the show started and rang them in ready to serve my guests and give them a night that was perfectly enjoyable from all angles. (No, that is not where the story deviates to fiction.) There was a broad at table 28 who was also a trumpet player for the show. She only had to perform in two numbers so she was sitting with her husband having a glass of Cabernet waiting for her time to get on stage. About halfway through the show, I stepped into the room to begin clearing empty glasses and make room for the second rounds. As I approached table 28 for the lady’s wine glass, she was facing the stage and couldn’t see that I was standing behind her and trying to clear her table. Surreptitiously, I reached my arm around her to pick up the glass when her hand reached out to grab mine. Apparently she thought my hand was the hand of her husband. She held it for a brief second as she continued to watch the stage. Pulling my hand away, I glanced at the husband who smiled at me seeing what was happening and knowing that his wife thought my hand was his.

A spark ignited between his wife and my cold cold heart. I reached back out to touch her hand again and I felt the warmth of our passion flow from my fingertips to the innermost recesses of my soul and thaw out my heart that had been longing for this feeling for oh so many years. She turned her head to look at her husband and realized that it was not his hand she was caressing, but mine. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment but then a smile came across her face making her lips a fuller deeper red than I have ever seen on any woman before or since. She pulled her hand away and muttered, “Excuse me. I must go to the ladies room.” Racing towards the back of the room with her long dark hair billowing behind her, I heard a sob escape from her throat that I recognized as regret filled with longing. I cleared her wine glass, cleared my throat and avoided eye contact with the husband.

Two minutes later, I gently opened the door to the ladies room and saw her leaning against the counter with her head hanging over the sink. Her eyes looked up at me with confusion and desire. “It’s okay,” I said. “I feel the same way as you do.” She pulled me towards her and planted her full moist lips on my mine as she ran her fingers through my hair. My hand wrapped around her waist and found a home in the waistband of her mom jeans. Kissing wildly, our tongues discovering each other, I was taken away to a place where drink orders no longer mattered and I was attracted to middle aged women trumpet players. Her hand moved from my hair to the nape of my neck, to the small of my back and finally to my ass where she grabbed and held on for dear life. When our lips parted, I looked into her eyes and a single tear fell from the left pool of blue.

“My husband is…” Her words trailed off.

“I don’t care about your husband,” I said. “I am in love with you. Ever since your hand accidentally touched mine four minutes ago, nothing else in the world matters to me anymore. You are all I care about.” I glanced at the mirror behind her and saw the reflection of her husband staring back at me with a a dark and steely gaze. I turned around to defend my love of his trumpet-playing, mom jeans-wearing, middle aged wife. He rushed towards me, hand outreached, and I prepared to feel his fingers throttled around my neck. Instead, he brushed the hair out of my eyes with his left thumb and put his right hand on the nape of my neck, the same place his wife’s had been moments earlier. He pulled me to him and kissed me with all the conviction he had. I struggled to get away and finally gave in to his power. His wife came to the front of me and they both made love to my face with their mouths savoring every inch of me.

Two minutes later, they were gone. I was alone in the women’s bathroom wondering what had just happened. I splashed cold water on my face, straightened my apron and went back to the bar. I carried out the second drinks and my night went on as usual, but I was forever changed.


Chardonnay=Pinot Grigio=Sauvignon Blanc

Now I am not a fancy wine drinker or anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like the stuff. In fact I am having a glass of it right now and it isn’t even from a box. It is from a really large bottle though. Like a two liter size that was on special at Bill’s Liquor Store down the street. I am also a big fan of the Two Buck Chuck you can get at Trader Joe’s. Like I said, I am having some right now so if there are typos, you will know whay. My point is I can’t tell the difference between one wine from the other. White from red, yes but among the whites? Forget it. Over the years I have worked in some pretty dumpy fuckin’ places (R.I.P. Houlihan’s) that served lots of wine. People always order it like they think they are a fucking sommelier. My thought is if you are ordering wine at Houlihan’s you ain’t no big deal. I love when they ask to taste it first and swirl the wine in the glass to get the bouquet before they give me approval to pour for the rest of the table. Gimme a break. Now, if you were in some high class fancy ass place that was known for their wine like Las Vegas or Olive Garden, then sure, you go to town. But at the crap houses I have worked at there is no reason to taste the wine before I serve it. I can already tell you it will taste like ass. But it’s always some guy trying to impress his date who wants to taste it first. He takes a sip and then furrows his brow and cocks his head before he nods very slowly as if to say, “ah yes, this is the finest glass of piss water I have had in ages. Very nice, Monsieur.” At least he can be sure he is getting what he ordered if he asks for the whole bottle. Plenty of times someone has asked for the pinot grigio, but we are out so we pour their ass a glass of sauvignon blanc and call it a day. Or a glass of chardonnay. Whatever. In all the times I have done this (and there have been plenty) not once did someone notice. I have been tempted to put a splash of cranberry into some chardonnay and see if I can pass it off as white zinfandel, but just have not done that yet. (Note to self: this weekend, put a splash of cranberry into some chardonnay and see if I can pass it off as white zinfandel.) It’s sorta like when someone orders a ginger ale and you can put a splash of Coke into a Sprite and they never know. For real. I worked at place for three years and we never carried ginger ale but I served it hundreds of times with that little trick.

Anyhoo, I am just sipping my chardonnay or pinot or whatever the fuck it is and thought about how people will drink whatever you place in front of them. They’re like cows. Only not as tasty when made into a hamburger.


Good Tip vs. Bad Tip

I was recently asked if I could spot a good tipper from a bad tipper by some waiter vibe that I have honed over my years of service. The answer is yes. Yes, I can tell when a person will be good tipper and when someone is a complete and utter piece of shit. I think most servers can do this to an extent, but I am exceptional at it. It takes practice and it’s almost like reading someones aura. You have to squint your eyes and look to the soul of the customer to determine the future tip. It’s not easy, but it can be done.

Contrary to popular belief, rich people are not necessarily good tippers. My x-ray vision can see right through their Rolex watches, diamond tennis bracelets and fur coats and recognize a cheap asshole or a bitch whore who became rich by hording their money and leaving crappy five and ten percent tips to waiters. I have never waited on Donald Trump, but for the sake of argument, let’s just say his tips suck worse than his hairdo. And that hairdo is pretty fucking bad. Here’s a tip for The Donald: Hats. Wear ’em. On the flip side, working class folks always seem to tip better. Surely it is because they are used to doing the menial labor and can appreciate the job that a waiter is doing for them. Or maybe there is some rule in the Wal-Mart handbook that says to leave a decent tip and always be nice. It is the only logical explanation really.

If someone looks directly in my eyes to order and knows how to say please and thank you, I can usually expect a decent tip. If they are pleasant to their spouse, their kids, their friends, then I can expect them to be pleasant to me and hopefully the tip will reflect that kindness. There are some exceptions. Nuns. They don’t tip well. They can be the sweetest thing this side of Jesus, but expect a quarter at most. I can’t blame them. I mean, where do they get their money? What is minimum wage for a nun anyway? They can’t be blowing all their cash on tips when they probably get paid with Bible verses, pennies and IOU’s from God saying He will make sure they will have a kick-ass mansion when they get to heaven. Generally though, nice people tip better.

Bad tippers usually have a way about them. Maybe they have shifty eyes or they mumble when they talk but you can always smell a bad tipper. No, seriously, they have an odor. They smell like cardamom spice and heavy cream that sat in the sun for a while. Not quite spoiled, but close to it. I also find that really hot chicks with big boobies leave crappy tips because they must think that just seeing their bosoms is enough for me. It isn’t. It so isn’t. There are also some people who leave other things instead of tips. One thing that popped up in the south a lot were pieces of paper that looked like dollar bills but were actually cards from a church that said things like “Smile, God Loves You” and “You Have Been Blessed!” That shit pissed me off because when I tried to deposit them into my account, it turns out the bank doesn’t accept that as money. And I recently read about a guy who was tipped with candy. Seriously? Save that shit for the trick-or-treaters, don’t tip me with it.

I guess the point is, all people tip what they want. We all hope for a good tip from the nice lady and don’t expect anything from the crotchety old man. Most of the time, the stereotype lives up to itself. Every once in a while, we are surprised by a 20% tip from a crazy looking bitch who only wanted hot water and lemons and yelled about her salad being wrong. But for the most part, we waiters can sense when we will hit pay dirt and when to brush them off. It just takes practice.