You know, I don’t give a shit who pays for the fucking check. It does not matter to me (or any other waiter) who paid last, who owes whom, who’s turn it is to treat, who’s birthday it is or who makes more money. We just want you to pay the damn check and get out so we can start talking about you. Nothing is more irritating than listening to two old ladies argue over who will pay for the two soups that weren’t hot enough and the two hot teas that weren’t Lipton. Just split it or give me two credit cards and shut up.
It happens all the time. Someone asks for the check and then the other person has to say “Oh no, you don’t! I’m paying.” “No I’m paying'” “No I am…” and so on and so forth. Or what really cracks my shit up is when one person says they are going to the bathroom and then sneaks over to me in the sidestand to interrupt my mimosa drinking to slip me a credit card. And then ten minutes later the other person does the same thing because they both want to be the big shot and be the one who pays. I always ask who is going to tip better. I have seen people get seriously upset about the whole stupid thing. A few years ago two men were both grabbing for the check to pay for it and prove who had the biggest penis when they got too into it. They were grabbing and pushing and eventually tilted the table and knocked over a few glasses that fell and shattered. Now who do you think had to clean that shit up? I just grabbed the check and said “DECIDE!” Now when two people argue about it I have a system. The first credit card that touches my hand is the one who pays. No exceptions whatsoever. A man once gave me his card and then the lady was saying “No, wait I have to pay because it’s his birthday. Wait wait! Take my credit card.” She continued whining as I swiped his card and made the man pay for his own birthday dinner. When I came back to the table I told them my rule as she shot me a look of hatred. I shot it right back to her and as I handed the check to the man, I smiled and said “happy birthday.”
I think everyone should be a waiter for six months of their lives. It would make the world a much better place, I just know it. Most people have never waited tables or if they have they forgot how goddamn shitty it can be to depend on total strangers to pay your income. Do you know what waiters usually make hourly? Less than minimum wage. I make $4.60 an hour. That means if I work 40 hours, I would only get $184 for the whole week. That does not even pay for my internets and phone service. Out of that humongous sum of money, I have to pay taxes on tips (whether I get them or not) and my paycheck is usually zero. That’s right, I said zero. Waiters pay taxes on a percent of their sales even if they got stiffed on a check. If I ring up a $75 check and Cunty McCuntcunt decides to leave only $5, the government is still going to tax me as if I had gotten a 15% tip. Uh huh. I pay taxes on tips I don’t even get. It sucks. Which is why customers must leave at least 15% for the tip. Some people are too stupid to figure it out, so they just leave 10%. Ignorance is not an excuse. If you need help, just double the tax so you would be leaving about 16%. Out of the tip that we are given then we have to tip out of it to the bartender and the food runner and the busser. I worked at one place once and we had to tip 40% of what we made. That sucked and I only lasted there for three days. But plenty of people work there and have to tip out the coffee girl, the guacamole maker, the hostess and the ass-wiper in the bathroom. If you have a crappy waiter, sure, maybe they don’t deserve more than 10%. But a good one deserves 20%. I deserve 25%.
So many mothers have this sense of fucking entitlement like she is the first woman to ever push a baby out of her Sweet Potato Pie Hole. It’s been happening for thousands of years, no big whoop. I cannot write enough about my disdain for children in my station. I don’t want them in my personal life so why the fuck would I want one at work? But people bring their babies in and then they think it’s my responsibility to make sure the music is not too loud. Or they have the nerve to ask me to heat up their baby food. Why would they think I have time for that? It’s not my baby. I am supposed to ignore my other tables and then bother the kitchen staff to heat up a bottle of milk? I’d rather you just breastfeed if it means I don’t have to do anything. Not that I want to get a close up view of your areola when I refill your Diet Coke. These are the same people who bring babies to an R rated movie and think it’s okay for everyone else to listen to it for two hours. No one cares about your baby except the people who know your baby (and some of them only act like they give a shit.) No one in the restaurant wants to step around your giant stroller or listen to it cry or watch you whip out your tit so it has an appetizer. Leave them at home with a sitter. Or just leave it alone while you come out to eat. I am sure it will be fine, whatever. Just leave a post-it note on it’s head with your cell phone number so if there is a problem the police will know how to reach you. You could always take it to Chuck E. Cheese where they live for that shit. The people who work there love it when they have a room full of screaming babies. Or better yet, order in. We have take out menus. Just don’t sit in my station.
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Yes, Virginia, waiters really do spit in food. But you have to be a really bad little girl to have that happen to you, so most people are okay. I have been slinging hash for about 15 sad bitter years and I have seen it happen. I am not saying that I have ever done such a disgusting thing to a table because that is a little bit too far even for me-oh who the fuck am I kidding? I have done it twice. Once to this prick in Texas who I heard call me a fag to his buddies at the table so he got a big helpin’ heapin’ dose of Bitchy Waiter Spit in his free refill of Lemonade. I will reserve the other time I did it for another post. Sadly, spitting is not the worst thing I have seen. I worked at this restaurant once where that kind of thing happened a lot. If you ever ate at the Houlihan’s in Times Square during the mid-90’s I apologize. There was this waitress there who was dealing with the typical ignorant tourist fucks who are dumb enough to eat at tourist trap like Houlihan’s. She was taking an order at a really loud obnoxious table and they were not listening to her. They were too excited about going to see Grease or Cats or some other stupid ass Broadway show that only tourists went to. She could not get their attention so someone at the table offered their assistance. He yelled out to his friends, “Hey let this girl do her job since it’s probably the only thing she’ll ever be good at!” I dunno why someone would say that about someone right before their food would be handled by that same someone, but he did. And he paid. When it came time for the food to come out, we all congregated in the kitchen to see what she was going to do. I will never forget it. First off, she took their plate of ribs and placed it on the floor. Then she stepped on it. Uh huh. They ate her dirty ass shoe germs. The guy with the burger got some very special fries. She took a handful of them and rubbed them all over the wall of the kitchen before putting them back on the plate and that wall was fucking disgusting. This was Times Square Houlihan’s people, where we didn’t clean and the rats got more shifts than we did. For their soup, someone else had a brilliant idea. They took the soup spoon and licked all over it and then put it on the plate. The waitress who licked all over it was really sick and didn’t want to be there so she was in a shitty mood anyway and this was a good “fuck you” to the table and to our manager who made her come in to work. The last diner just got a good fashioned loogie stirred into her Oriental Stir Fry and she served it with a smile. That was good times, people. Good times. You wanna be nice to your server. If you want to be mean, do it after you eat. Never before. Unless you are stupid, in which case be prepared. Farting at your table is not the worst thing that can happen.
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Over the years, I have always worked in restaurants that are open on the holidays. It sucks major Christmas balls. The servers always have to fight to see who has to work on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. The shittiest by far is Christmas Day. Why the fuck any restaurant wants to be open that day is beyond me. Of course the person who decides to be open on Christmas is not actually working that day. When I worked for a major hotel chain (who’s name shall remain anonymous) it was a given that we would be open on Christmas, but do you think Mr. Fucking Marriott was at his office that day? I doubt it. But my ass was waiting tables on all the losers who don’t have anything else to do on Baby Jesus’ Birthday. And they all look at us with sad puppy dog eyes because they feel sorry for us working on a holiday like we didn’t have anything else to do. Really, I look at them with sad puppy dog eyes because they are the ones who are at a restaurant by choice when they should be eating with their loved ones. You would think they would tip us a bit extra on those days but most people leave the same crappy ass 10% tip that they will leave any other day of the year. So don’t go out to eat on a holiday. Maybe eventually restaurant owners will decide it’s not worth it to be open and let their employees spend Christmas the way it was meant to be spent: celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ our Saviour, getting drunk and/or high and eating till you puke right before you open your presents. And now I have to go iron my fucking uniform for work. Happy Birthday, Jesus. How do you like your eggs?
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Sometimes people think that when they come into the restaurant they are in their own kitchen and I am their personal chef for the day. No bitch, that is not how it works. We have this thing called a menu. M-E-N-U. It is this really great idea that someone came up with that tells you what we have to offer. You should read it. Someone was paid to create it and make it and print it. And then that girl at the front who showed you to your table gave you one for you to look at it. It is not for your devil spawn children to draw in or for you to use to flag me down. It is for you to choose what you want to eat. Some ass came in the other day and threw himself into a booth without being seated. Then he complained the table was sticky with syrup. (He HOPES it was syrup.) So he didn’t have a menu and he ordered a chicken parmesan. Seriously? Does this look Bella Italia or The Olive Garden? No, ass, we are a diner. Burgers, salads, meatloaf. I ain’t got no fucking eggplant rollatini so don’t ask for that shit either. So I told him we don’t have it. “What, you out of that today?” I suggested that he order two fried eggs with hash browns and toast because that is what we do. Or maybe a burger with a side of pubic hair because that is what he was about to get. This other douche bag came in last week and started ordering all this ala carte crap without looking at the menu. He ordered two eggs just like his friends. Fine. That comes with hash browns and toast. Then he says he wants French Toast too. Okay, we have that. And then he wants sausage. And coffee. And orange juice. It all came out, he ate it and then got his bill and had a fucking pissy bitch fit. He wants to know how three orders of eggs can cost more than twenty dollars. I told him it was simple mathematics. One order is $6.95 and when you multiply that by three it comes out to more than twenty dollars. See? It’s easy, douche! He thought there was a better way I could have rung up his food so he did not have to pay for everything. I took him a menu. MENU! I showed him each thing he ordered. I asked him, “Is that what you had? Did it come to your table? Did you eat it all?” He answered yes to all these things. Then here is your bill. End of story. Read the fucking menu people and make both our lives a little easier, but I will still want to drop pubes in your burger, just so you know.
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