Category Archives: old lady

Old People Like Decaf

I'm old and cranky.

I’m old and cranky.

Ahh, old people: you can’t live with ’em, you can’t hold a pillow over their face until they silently drift off to a better place. Don’t get me wrong, I love senior citizens although I can’t help but wonder what happens to tastes buds after the age of 70 that makes every cup of coffee or hot tea seem cold. A four-top has arrived at Table 11 and two of them are people I have waited on many times before. Adding up the ages of all four people, I realize I am dealing with about three centuries worth of crotchetiness. The one couple I am familiar with are not my favorite people. The last time they were in the restaurant, the woman disappeared for about twenty minutes only to finally emerge from the restroom. She came right up to me and said, “In case you were wondering, I just dropped some paper towels into the toilet bowl.”

No, I was not wondering.

I approach the table with trepidation because I know from past experience that the old woman always need substitutions and is never happy with what she ends up getting. I don’t know why she insists on coming back time after time if she is never satisfied. (“Tell me about it,” says her fossil husband.)

“Hello, everyone, how are you tonight? Can I get you anything to drink right now or tell you the specials?” I ask.

Old Lady Toilet Bowl Offender pipes in. “I already spoke with the chef. My husband needs very bland food so whatever we order just tell them it’s for me so they’ll know to make it bland.”

“Bland it is, yes ma’am.”

“But we need some time. Want to bring us some bread?”

Ordinarily, customers say “can we get bread?” or “will you bring us some bread?” but she specifically asks me if I want to bring her bread. I lie to her face and tell her that I do want to bring bread. I return two minutes later with a basket of bread and four plates and begin to set them down.

“I don’t need a plate,” she tells me.

I recall from her last visit that she most certainly does need a plate. Her and her husband are the biggest pigs I have ever seen and when they leave there is always a pile of crumbs and food remnants scattered about the floor and table, but I remove her plate as she grabs for a piece of bread.

“And we’re ready to order. I’ll start with the asparagus and prosciutto appetizer and then I want the cod but I don’t want roasted potatoes, I want mashed. And put the sauce on the side and tell them to use as little oil as possible. It doesn’t need to be bland because this is for me and not my husband.”

The other woman orders a salmon and the other man orders a Caesar salad to start and a soup to follow.

“What can I get for you, Mr. Bland?”

“I’m afraid I will just be an observer this evening as I am recovering from a digestive issue'” he tells me as he rubs his stomach.

I repeat the order and remind the man who ordered the soup that it is a chilled soup and not a warm one.

“Oh, well that changes everything,” he says. “I didn’t know that.”

The truth is he did know that, he just didn’t pay attention to me when I described the soup as a chilled corn soup with a green onion garnish.

“I’ll have the roasted chicken instead.”

“Okay, so I’ll bring out the Caesar salad and then the chicken, is that right?”

I take his silence as a yes and go off to ring their order in. As I am standing at the computer, I watch Old Bland Ass reach for a piece of bread. He doesn’t break a small piece of it off and then eat it, as that would indicate manners and class. Instead, he grasps it with both hands and heads in like he is eating a slice of watermelon or ribs. When he gets to the crust, he discards it onto his plate and grabs another piece. I watch as the Salmon Lady’s jaw drops in disbelief and then as she brings her hand up to cover her open mouth. The man eats bread like a cartoon beaver cutting down a tree; crumbs flying in every direction. It is mesmerizing. I imagine if I gave him a whole fish to eat, he would put the entire thing into his mouth and then pull it back out as a skeleton. I tear my eyes away from the freak show and continue to ring in their food.

A few minutes later, I take the two appetizers to the table. When I place the Caesar salad down, the man looks at me with surprise.

“I don’t want this. You misunderstood when I placed my order. I told you I didn’t want the salad anymore when I found out the soup was cold. Take this away.”

I remove the salad knowing full well that for the second time that night he did not listen to me. I specifically asked him if I should bring the salad out before the chicken and he chose not to answer.

The rest of their meal goes without incident, but I can tell that the one couple is ready to get the hell out of dodge by how quickly they eat their food. As I clear their plates, Mr. No Caesar Salad asks for the check but Old Lady Toilet Bowl has other ideas.

“Oh, but I think I want some coffee.”

I can see Salmon Lady’s face fall with disappointment knowing she has to sit with them for at least ten more minutes.

“Anyone else want coffee?” I ask.

No one else does and Madame Commode decides she wants decaf. “Hot decaf.” I let her know that I don’t have any ready right now so it will take a few extra minutes but I will bring it out as soon as I make it. I offer a look of apology over to Salmon Lady for adding another few minutes to her night of hell.

“Make sure it’s decaf,” she says as I walk towards the coffee maker.

Five minutes later, I am filling her coffee cup.

“Decaf, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

‘Yes, ma’am. We didn’t have any decaf so I made decaf just for you. This is decaf.”

“Because I can’t drink regular coffee this late, it has to be decaf.”

“It’s. Decaf,” I  say through gritted teeth.

Finally, I give them the check and they pay leaving me a 10% tip which is customary for old people who have lots of special needs and then leave gigantic messes on the floor.

“We’ll see you soon,” she says to me as they head out the door.

“Not if I see you first,” I think.


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Senior Citizens Make Me Nervous

There must have been a 50% off coupon for my club mailed to all AARP members this week because my whole station smelled like old people yesterday. You know the smell? A little bit of moth ball and Lysol with a hint of poo? Woman at table 13 last night. I give her my usual routine about the two-beverage minimum and how it would be best if she could just tell me both drinks at the beginning so I don’t have to crawl over everybody and yell into her hearing aid to ask what she wants in the middle of the show. She seemed confused by me asking what she wanted for her second drink even though she hadn’t had her first one. I felt bad. I know how confusing things can be for older people. Remote controls, computers, garage door openers…the world can be a scary place, old lady. She ordered a tonic water. So I asked her if she wanted that for her second drink as well. And then she asked me something that no one has ever asked me before while I was waiting on them. She looked up at me with sad sorrowful eyes and cocked her head to the right a bit. And then she asked me. She said, “Is tonic water a laxative?” Uh, what? What the fuck is the old lady asking me? I didn’t know if she wanted it to be a laxative because she needed to make a Grandma Poopy Pie or if she was scared it was a laxative because she had already had her daily recommended allowance of laxative and one more bit of laxative would make a big embarrassing scene. I told her quite honestly that I didn’t know. In my head I was thinking “oh if this lady takes a fucking dump here, I will cut an old bitch.” She decided that just to be on the safe side she would have a bottled water for her second drink. Just to be on the safe side? It sounds to me like Grandma McGrunty needed to skip the show tonight and make a date with her dear friend Mr. Toilet.

The show went on without incident. She flagged me down for the check before the show was over because she was in a hurry. It doesn’t take much thought to figure out what she was in a hurry to do. She bolted out as soon as the show was done. I warily approached her seat scared of what I might find when I looked down at it. Thankfully, it was clean and dry. I hadn’t been that concerned about the dryness of a seat since two weeks ago when this lady was squirming all over chair as she was watching a Peter Allen tribute show. The guy singing was Australian and I just wanted to remind her that this guy wasn’t really Peter Allen. He’s dead. Didn’t matter to her though. She was hopping and jumping all over that seat and I was just glad that any possible wettness stayed in her panties.

I have since done some exhaustive research (I googled it) and found no link to tonic water being a laxative. So rest assured, people. Feel free to drink those gin and tonics without any fear of softened stools or unsightly bowel movements. You’re welcome.
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Yes, the coffee is hot, bitch

I don’t know what it is with old people, but I hope when I am old (in like six years from now) I don’t lose my taste buds. I guess after living through the depression and having to eat boot soup and newspaper sandwiches, they just don’t have the ability to taste anymore. Old people always send shit back. It’s never hot enough. Yesterday this lady asked me for a cup of coffee making sure to tell me she meant hot coffee and not iced coffee. Like I am an idiot. So I got her coffee and made sure there was steam coming from it because when there is steam that means it’s hot, right? Well, not when you serve it to an old dinosaur like this lady. Seriously, I think she was a first grade teacher for the caveman. She calls me over to tell me the coffee is cold. Not warm or luke-warm or even room temperature, but cold. She acted like it was one step away from being a coffee popsicle. So I smiled and resisted the temptation I had to knock her fucking false teeth out and went to get her some more coffee. OUT OF THE SAME POT. And guess what. By some miracle of miracles this coffee was much better. It must have been a magic freaking coffee pot that made it’s contents change temperature by 20 degrees in a matter of two minutes. I was nice to her because old people make me sad. I just made fun of her in the side stand because she had a huge herpe on her lip that she probably picked up from blowing men for apples in 1933. “Blowjob for an apple, sir?” I can just see her. She counted out her pennies for my tip and shuffled out of my station. She should have saved the money she spent on coffee and bought some fucking Abreva for that cold sore. It was so big, I almost gave it it’s own menu.