Angry Waiter

Updates

2006-08-09T23:58:00.000-07:00

Well readers, it had been a while since I have posted, but fear not! More posts of customers, fellow servers and management coming soon. So much has happened since I’ve last posted that I feel obligated to post a little update.

-I have proposed to WaiterGirlfriend! Thank you too all who kept it a secret. We all know how hard it is to keep women in the dark, especially about something like this and especially for the long months it took.

-One of my favorite bosses I’ve ever worked for has been let go. It wasn’t something that was his fault, but he seems happier for it. It was a bittersweet time for me, because I was sad for him leaving, but glad because…

-I have been offered a management position at the Restaurant. It will be big step for me, in the direction I want to go, but I am strangely dragging my feet about a decision. I will probably end up doing it, but I just don't want to become trapped in my job, as many are.

Don’t worry about posts though, even if I do go into dreaded management. I have plenty of stories all lined up for you loyal readers. So go out there and spread the word! And as always, please tip your waiter.

Tribute

2006-05-03T09:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve been sitting here looking at this blank page for quite some time now, contemplating what I should write about next. I would love to do a funny blog on some crazy table I had this weekend, but it doesn’t feel right at this particular moment. I wanted to avoid it, because I’m not very good at it, but I’m going to do a memorial post for a fellow server who passed away two days ago.

His name was Mikey. I knew him from my hosting days, when he was a server at the same restaurant I was working at. He was always joking around, and constantly getting into trouble. That was just the type of guy he was. He never got fired because he was so ingraining. Everyone liked him. I barely knew him and I liked him.

That’s what I hate about these types of posts. I didn’t really know the guy. I’m sure someone who knew him, a brother or a mother or a close friend or an ex can do a better job than I. He will be missed by all those people a great deal more. They had Mikey as an integral part of their lives. They were invested in him, as he was invested in them. And now he simply isn’t there. Isn’t there to support someone, isn’t there to make someone laugh, or make someone angry. He isn’t around to get into trouble and with that smirk get himself out of it in the same breath.

He isn’t around to wait on customers anymore. People coming into the restaurant where he worked will never know him, never know that he could be an awesome waiter or a bad waiter, depending on the day. Never know that he will screw up their order or that everything will come out to perfection and you will leave wanting to come back to him. He’s not there anymore, unavailable forever to a vast array of possibilities.

His life was cut too short. Unfortunately, he and his friend chose poorly that evening. I don’t want to go into too much detail, but suffice to say, it was a drunk driving accident. They were driving way too fast, and all sorts of natural laws caught up with them. It was a situation Mikey couldn’t talk his way out of. It was a situation that will haunt many people for years to come and it’s a shame that it happened.

My heart goes out to the family. They came into TheRestaurant today and ate. I avoided them. I didn’t know any of them, and my platitude wouldn’t have been enough. Not enough for me and certainly not enough for them. I left them quietly eating and consoled the other servers as best I could. It’s not an easy thing, and it never should be.

You can read about the story here

The AngryWaiter Turns into the AngryCustomer

2006-05-02T21:37:00.001-07:00

There is little doubt that you, my dear readers, have gone out to eat before and have been waited on by someone who doesn’t meet my skill level. They probably were slow to get to you, weren’t particularly friendly, didn’t quite get your order right, didn’t know the menu very well, and didn’t really care about any of this. You had a crappy waiter.

Not everyone can do this job well. I hear it all the time, “This job is so EASY, anyone can do it!”

Really?

I dare you to try it if you haven’t already. It’s six to eight hours of non-stop, on your feet, running around from one end of a restaurant to another, scrambling for tips, dealing with rude people of all types, all for that one table, that one tip that makes it worth it for you. But I digress.

It’s an odd experience to go out to eat and get extremely bad service, but it happened tonight. My better half and I went out for a late night dinner and found ourselves at a rather famous (and infamous) twenty-four hour diner in town. We sat down and wait for at least fifteen minutes for someone to drop menus off.

This in itself isn’t unusual. Unless you are a regular, you have to expect crappy service right from the start. But our waitress went beyond the usual fare at this diner.

She walks up to the table and says nothing. She sort of picks up the menus placed strategically on the end of the table signaling that we were ready to order. She doesn’t do anything with them, just holds them and looks at us. We knew why we were there. We wanted some late-night breakfast. I’m not totally convinced that she was sure why we were sitting there. Hell, I’m not sure she knew why she was there. Not in the metaphysical, “Why am I working here sense,” more like the “I really don’t know what I’m doing in this place, what’s my name?” sense.

I knew it was going to go downhill from there.

I eventually break the ice and say hello. She stammers out a greeting, and without bothering to give her name (a pet peeve of mine) she asks, “Have you ordered yet?” Why no, no we haven’t. You see, that would be your job, and as of yet, this is the first time you have talked to us since we walked into this establishment. I recommend taking a deep breath and pulling your head out of your ass.

I didn’t say that of course. All I said was, “No, but we are ready.”

Opportunity wasted, I suppose.

We put in our order--a turkey burger (her) and an order of French toast, chocolate chip waffles and an order of eggs scrambled (me). One of us is on a diet. I’ll give you two guesses as to who it is, the answer is not the AngryWaiter.

It, of course, takes quite a while to get our food because the place is as it usually is late at night, over-packed and understaffed. Eventually, her food comes out and I notice something strange. I don’t have my food. Usually food is brought out at the same time, and last I checked it takes half the time to cook French toast as it does to cook a burger.

No worries I guess, it will be coming soon. I can hope…

That’s when I hear the words I had been dreading when I noticed my food was AWOL.

“I didn’t order this.”

This idiot had brought out one part of the order to the right table, but somehow had gotten mixed up when it came time for my food. She was only one table off, which is somewhat admirable. Well, not really. She brought out half the food normally, I really don’t understand how the hell she could be stupid enough to drop food at the wrong table.

I ate the waffles and they were excellent. I could have done without the side of the “server” bitching about having a long day. No one gives a shit, you haven’t established any sort of connection with us, don’t bitch to us. I only bitch to customers that I feel comfortable with, and it’s mostly self-depreciating to those who used to work tables.

Nothing is worse than you fucking up and complaining about your hard day. I saw you sitting down twenty minutes ago before you graced my table with your presence. Try working in a real restaurant so you could buy more meth than what you can afford here.

You may be asking, what happened to your French toast? I asked myself the same thing as you did. The answer was “Not made yet.” Are you fucking KIDDING me? French toast takes a good thirty seconds to cook and it’s not up yet? Jesus, the rest of our food is here, and I’m almost done with my waffles and it’s not right here for me to eat?

This meal gets better and better.

I finish eating quickly, I have a poker game to make. Of course she drops the bill without ever asking if our food was any good. She could’ve at least pretended to care. But she didn’t.

That’s when I offer to pay the bill while my better half gets the tip. It’s a routine that’s been set for quite a while. Without giving details, we’ve been together for so long that little things like paying the bill have been worked out. We live together and if we split things, everything works out much better.

And I figured she got out really easy because I expected the tip to be almost non-existent. I never leave no tip, I am a server and who knows, she could’ve had the worst night of her life. I doubt it, but you don’t want karma to eat you alive.

But I noticed that she put too many bills out on the table. I counted it, one, two, three, four, five… five dollars on a twenty dollar check?

“I don’t fucking think so. Three dollars. That’s it. I’ll be damned if I reward that kind of service.”

So she got three dollars. I got some decent grub and shitty service. I will take that over the other way around. It’s servers like her that give the rest of us a bad name. Customers come out to eat with all this baggage from being screwed before. I try my best to heal their psyches, but sometimes people are irredeemable. I wonder if that girl ever thinks that she isn’t just fucking her customers over, she is fucking my potential customers over too?

Probably not. I’m sure she will go inside from her smoke break and see the three dollars left to her and think that she deserved more. And she will move on to the next table, and on and on it goes.

Viva El Mexico!

2006-05-02T21:37:00.000-07:00

Luckily, I had the day off on Monday.

I’m sure those around the country heard about the large protest in the Southern California region. It was a huge walkout of illegal immigrants, legal immigrants and citizens. To tell you the honest truth, I’m not even sure what the bill is for or why it’s being introduced. All I know is that a lot of people are not happy about it and I have yet to hear one person say this bill is a good thing.

From what little I know about this bill, it would seriously affect the economy of not only the state of California, but the whole country, if it were to pass. California has the fifth largest economy in the WOLRD (I’m pretty sure it is, it might be sixth. I really hate doing these pieces on news because I’m much too lazy to find actual facts. If anyone who reads this wants to send me corrected information with a source attached, I will be more than happy to give them credit for correcting my laziness. In any case, on with the show). If you think that what happens in California doesn’t affect the rest of the country, you are, to put it mildly, stupid.

I can tell you right now if you were to lose immigrants from the work force, the restaurant business might well fucking collapse. Do you really think if you go to an Italian place, there is some white old Italian lady back there cooking her homemade meals for you? Wrong. It’s a Mexican who doesn’t speak a word of English. In almost every restaurant everywhere, it’s the same thing. Mexicans cook your food, they wash your dishes and they clean your tables. They do it for hours a day, most do it seven days a week, many at two or three different restaurants. A lot get paid under the table in smaller restaurants, but most pay taxes, taxes that they can kiss goodbye to. Who’s going to give an illegal social security?

I certainly don’t want to do the jobs they do. Do you want to wash dishes? Do you know how shitty that job is? It’s scalding hot, it’s monotonous, it’s heavy lifting… you can’t even listen to music because your radio won’t go over the sound of the industrial dishwasher unit. It’s a suburb of hell. You can take your worst day in the office and it would be a cakewalk compared to what those guys go through everyday.

And cooks? Have you ever cooked hundreds of the same thing every day, day in and day out? Have you prepped them? Have you had stupid customers come in and ask for something that’s not on the menu and you had to figure out how to make it with the limited tools you had? I doubt it.

All I know is, illegals don’t steal your fucking jobs. Citizens are more than happy not working and collecting checks. Fuck you. Walk a day in a Mexican’s shoes and see if your feet don’t come back sore.

Viva El Mexico!

A Tale of Two Servers

2006-04-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

For most people, serving is seen as a transient job. It’s a means to an end, it’s somewhere where you “work,” not somewhere that you would choose to follow a career. I’m that way too, unless somehow I can work there for fodder or for a bit of extra cash. I enjoy it most of the time, I meet interesting people, I have a place to vent about the not so wonderful people I meet and I tend to make good money at it.

But some people are born to be servers. They are good at their jobs and have found nothing else that they like doing better. These people are generally older, with a weary smile and a chipper attitude. They’ve mastered the art of serving, and they can earn upwards of thirty to fifty thousand a year.

They are the ones that have their regulars, they are the ones that have the best shifts, and they are the ones that tend to steal the best tables if you aren’t carefully watching them.

These people are not created equal however. There are two main categories and one sub category that the lifers fall into.

The first one is the one that loves what they do. They always come to work with a smile, they always enjoy being at their jobs. I love working with these guys, because they have seen it all. You can learn from their mistakes without ever having to go through the pain yourself. You can learn from their success and pattern your behavior after them. After all, they make a steady living from what they do, they must be doing something right.

And these servers are a pleasure for the customers. They are knowledgeable about the menu, the restaurant, the town… pretty much any form of small talk, they can handle it. If something goes wrong with a table, you leave feeling better than you did before you came in. They are stellar and some restaurants need more of them.

There are those, however, who stay with the job because of a lack of ambition, talent, or discipline. Those are the ones who are old and bitter, angry at the world because their break never came and now they are stuck. Old dogs will learn no new tricks, and these old husks can learn no more.

They are hit and miss with the customers, but are always pissed off at other servers. They see bright, young people move through their restaurant like they never did and it makes them even more bitter. They do everything they can to not help you in anyway and you can’t depend on them for anything.

They’ve seen so many customers that they simply don’t care anymore. No one is special, guests are just numbers to them. Get them in, get them out, go home alone and have a beer.

The sub category of this is the breakfast server. These are usually old ladies, either widowed or divorced (sometimes single through natural causes) and can be either the ones who love their jobs or the ones that hate their jobs. Usually the latter. They don’t refill your drinks, they don’t check on the food, they just come in and collect their money, a dollar at a time.

All in all, servers come in every size and shape, every age and every background. These are two of them, and they are very much foils of each other. It doesn’t take much for those that love their jobs to become bitter with it.

The hard fact is, serving can be a career. It’s a job with its abuses to be sure, but the payouts are sometimes worth it. So next time you get that guy who is a lifer and loves his job, just remember that he is a person that’s just trying to make a living.

Please don’t make him bitter. For my sake?

Odd Things are Heating Up

2006-04-26T15:14:00.000-07:00

I receive all sorts of odd requests from my guests. They range from the mostly sane (I only want my drink with the meal, despite the fact that I get free refills) to the truly insane (I don’t think I want a side with my meal… can I substitute a lobster tail for that instead?). It is part and parcel with the job and there are those that come in that expect the moon and the stars on a silver platter.

Most of the time these are the people that simply don’t know how to eat out. They especially don’t know how to tip. The general rule of thumb is, when they run you to the ground, your tip is going to be nil. It’s the tables that don’t seem like work at all where you make your money.

I had a table of seven early on a Sunday. Sunday crowds are odd. They are mostly churchgoers for all the obvious reasons, and there must be something about church that makes you want to go out and get some seafood.

I always hope the sermon has been about charity on Sundays, because if it hasn’t, these churchgoers already gave at the office. Jesus saves your soul. I simply bring out your food.

This table of seven seemed no different. They needed their drinks out as soon as possible. As it stood, one of them didn’t have his ID with him. They said he was thirty, but he truthfully could’ve been twelve. I let it slide because it’s five dollars less for a soda than for the drink he wanted.

He changed it to a virgin without prompting. Why put me through the hassle? Probably just because you can.

I got their drinks out in a normal speedy manner and I was immediately verbally assaulted by the matriarch of the group.

“We need our dinner out as soon as possible. Let the kitchen know. We have a bingo game to make.”

Sigh.

OF COURSE, I would by more than happy to go ahead and scoot you ahead of not only everyone else in the restaurant, but also my other tables. Because the fact is I’m sure you will tip me extremely well despite the fact that I can’t slap a gratuity to your bill, and you’ve already caused me enough of a headache with the drinks. I’ll get right on that.

What did I really say?

“I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Translation: Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

In my defense, I did go to the back and tell the cooks to hurry up with that order. I don’t think they quite understood that I was being sarcastic, so the food came out with a surprising quickness.

But not quick enough for the oddest request of the week.

Almost every meal comes with a side and a dinner salad. I try to keep our salad bowls cool, but that is not always possible. Most people don’t seem to mind, or even notice if they are a tad warm, but a few have.

But to have the salad too cold? I don’t know about that one. I, for one, don’t like my salad lukewarm, and I’m sure I’m not alone in this.

Nonetheless, a young lady at my table told me her salad was too cold and asked if I could microwave it.

I believe I wrote that right.

Microwave. Her. Salad.

I couldn’t help but stare at her. Was she serious?

“Why?” I blurted out a bit rudely.

“It hurts my teeth when it’s cold.”

I found this hard to believe as there was quite a gap between the two front ones. I wanted to say, well I’m sure you have enough wiggle room in there to get it past the teeth. But alas, this is the only place I get to actually say what I think.

“Of course. I’ll see what I can do.”

I did end up microwaving it, the table turned less demanding as the meal came out (as most do) and they ended up tipping decently.

I can only hope microwaving salads doesn’t come in vogue for everyone. I would have to commit serveraside with my wine key.

(I’ll leave that up to you whether or not that word means I turn the key on myself or the customers that put me through hell.)

My Anti-Drug

2006-04-24T04:31:00.000-07:00

It was blank.

It wasn’t supposed to be blank.

It was supposed to filled out with numbers and a signature. It’s what I do this job for. It’s supposed to by my tip.

But again, it was blank.

The problem with the two credit card slips we give you is that it is easy to lose them. It gets wadded up in your purse or pocket and you throw it out whenever you clean them out. But you can look at your bank statement and see exactly how much you paid.

However, without you filling out the copy that is ours, we have no idea how much (or how little) you wanted to give us for doing a job well done.

We aren’t psychic. And servers get into an unusual amount of trouble if we mess around with tips. If you aren’t clear on what you write (say a three that looks like an eight) we have to round down to the lowest amount. Sounds unfair, right? Well, you haven’t been on the receiving end of someone calling the restaurant because we overcharged their tip. Especially if it was a lousy tip to begin with.

And it usually is a lousy tip that you can’t read. I’m sure there is a correlation there, something about handwriting skills and general income level. I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself.

The other night, this couple came and sat down at my table with drinks in hand, a martini and something on the rocks, probably a scotch or a whiskey. It was probably also not their first drink and they were already half done with these.

Something about the couple was disconcerting. I don’t know if it was the mumbling, the swearing like a teenager or the twitching and constant movement. If I had to make my guess, I would say they were meth addicts.

Drug addicts... always my favorite type of guests. I couldn’t wait for them to be gone.

I took their order and it came out to a fairly hefty check, around seventy dollars. I thought to myself, it’s the first table for the night and it can go either way. They will either tip me big because of my glorious wit and natural charm or they will tip small because they have to buy more meth.

I didn’t have time to pick up the check after they had paid it. Someone handed it to me and I slipped it into my apron for later inspection, as I was taking care of another table. I looked in the book after I was done and to my surprise...

It was blank.

Seventy dollars, on which I get taxed, and I made zero dollars. Less actually. If you think about it, it was like they came in, took five or six dollars out of my wallet and ate some food.

Maybe that’s what people don’t realize when they stiff a waiter. Yes, the government assumes that even if you don’t put the tip on the credit card, a server will get some form of tip. So they tax my sales. Which come directly out of my paychecks. Which I don’t see enough of as it is. Sometimes, I don’t even get a paycheck, despite working thirty to forty hours a week. Is this my life? Is this really what I do? Deal with crazy people, suck up to them, all so I can work forty hours and not even have a paycheck to show for it?

So when whacked out people take the wrong credit card slip (I even write 'Server Copy' right on top), I’m just a wee bit upset.

T-I-P-S. My anti-drug.

Easy Pray

2006-04-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

There is a time when no server, no matter how patient, no matter how saintly, no matter how amazingly well they know the table is going to tip, will want to be any where near said table.

That’s when the table starts praying.

It’s happened to every server I know and it always elicits the same reaction. We simply don’t know how to respond. Do we wait there and bow our heads? Do we continue on as if nothing is happening? Do we leave? How long do we stay away?

Imagine this: you are working in a movie theatre. It’s a Friday night and it’s noisy, with kids and adults alike making a racquet, and you are working at the concessions stand. You take a family’s popcorn order and right before you hand it to them, they all join hands and start to quietly pray. Do you try to continue to hand them the popcorn, do you help other guests, or do you do what most movie theatre workers do? (By that I mean nothing.)

I had a table early into a long shift on a Friday. I was just starting to get busy and establish my rhythm. Rhythm is extremely important in a server’s life, and it can mean the difference between an average night and a night that you can pay your rent with. I establish a repore with the table, quickly ingraining myself with the seven ladies (no added gratuity… damn…).

I take their drink order as per usual. Mostly waters, but some sodas mixed in for good measure. No appetizers however, which is unusual for a larger party on a Friday. Alas, this was the least of my worries.

I bring back their drinks and take their order. It’s quite a mix: a few specials, a few appetizers as meals (a complete breakdown of that later) and one really expensive item. Usually it’s all cheap or it’s all expensive.

As I bring bread and salads to my table, the ladies are all quite jovial. I’m joking and laughing and generally smoozing the table, trying to squeeze my money out of them. As I’m done placing my last salad, something odd happens. I’m talking with one of the ladies about nothing important when they all take hands.

Without a word to me, she takes the hands of the two ladies next to her.

Without a word to me, she bows her head.

And without a word to me, she blows me off.

Normally I’m used to this, but not on this scale. I understand religious ceremonies and their importance in the lives of my guests. But to simply ignore me to do them is quite a different cup of tea.

All it would have taken is a friendly “Excuse me a moment.” It’s not as if I had gone to the table while they were praying and said “HEY! What’s going on? Anyone hear me? You were what? Oh, right, sorry, I was just trying to take your order…” I was in the MIDDLE OF A CONVERSATION! I was making eye contact and speaking in clear symbols to which she was responding in kind.

I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t seem like something God would approve of. As far as I understand it, God is the servant and the master. Just like I’m your servant and also master of your food

God will still be there when I’m done.

But only I know if and when your food is coming out.

Hell hath no fury like a server scorned.

In the Time it Takes to Blink...

2006-04-21T01:58:00.000-07:00

People can snap in the blink of an eye. They can do a complete one-eighty on a dime and tables can blow up in your face. Often times, it’s not something you did wrong, it’s something you didn’t do completely right.

Dining out used to be a special event, a celebration of a birthday or a holiday. Now, it has become the norm, with the clanging kitchen nowhere to be found, and a personal servant there to wait on you for an hour or two.

That is me unfortunately.

As it has become an extension of our homes, bad behaviors best left to the privacy of your own homes come to light in a very public place. Yes, I said what a lot of people don’t always realize. A restaurant is a PUBLIC place, a place where people can freely enter at any times.

This means that certain decorum should be maintained.

No swearing around kids. I’m not allowed to do it, but that’s what I get paid for. You shouldn’t do it because kids should wait till they can swear properly before they try it.

You still have to get home, so it’s probably not to the best idea to get drunk. Drinking is fine and encouraged, nothing kicks up the bill like a six dollar drink, but try to keep it within its limits.

And lastly, don’t treat your waiter rudely. Kids will pick up on that type of behavior. It says, it’s ok to treat someone who is doing their job like a second class citizen. It leaves the door open for racism, bigotry--all those fun little nasty things that brighten my day when I see kids learn.

People can snap. I learned that lesson on one particular table. It was a couple, a bit older, perhaps in their forties and very friendly the whole meal. Most tables I joke around with, tell them personal things about myself, just generally doing my server thing. I thought they would be the last table to give me trouble.

Once again, people prove me wrong in the oddest of ways.

In the man’s defense, I did take a bit longer with his bill than I should have. Regardless, if he had seen me for the last ten minutes, running the four other tables I had at the time, running around like an Olympic sprinter, he might have shown a bit of sympathy.

This was, of course, not the case.

I bring them the bill.

“I’ll be right back with some wet naps for you sir…”

“Forget the goddamn wet naps! We’ve been sitting here longer than it took to eat our meal. Let’s get this taken care of NOW!”

Taken aback, I could do nothing but attend to the bill. It was the first time I had ever felt uncomfortable at a table. Regardless of the situation being my fault, to go from friendly to directly confrontational was not something I was used to dealing with. I ran the check and handed it back to him, still feeling a bit flustered.

“I’m extremely sorry that it took so long for the check sir.”

Inaudible grunt from the husband

“It’s okay… we know you were busy. Everything was great.”

Wife to the rescue.

“Thank you, ma’am. I hope to see you again. Have a great night and thank you.”

The tip? Not bad, sixteen percent. Considering the guy’s attitude at the end of the meal, he was not in charge of my financial fate. It was a female’s handwriting. She was probably in the trenches at one time herself.

People can snap. Zero to sixty in no time at all. As long as you remain calm, professional, detached, you can usually scrape by without a major confrontation. Your tip might suck, but the restaurant will be there in an hour, and the customer won’t.

Besides, you can always spit in the food.

Decent Proposal

2006-04-13T00:34:00.000-07:00

This job isn’t all bad. In fact, it is simply the best job I’ve had to date. And I have worked many different jobs, from sales to retail to corporate places… they all had their drawbacks which sent me packing. I would be working too many hours to go to school, or I wouldn’t be making enough money to live off of. I can do all that and more serving. I have a flexible schedule and I make enough money to cover my rent, my other expenses and a bit left over for my assorted vices.

It was an atypical Friday night. It simply wasn’t that busy, which was fine because we were about to have a shock that would remind us that special things can happen from time to time. We even had our hand in it.

It wasn’t my table, but the word spread quickly that someone was proposing marriage right here in our restaurant. That in itself amazed me. We aren’t exactly the Tavern on the Greens. Ah well, to each his own.

I tried so hard to be cynical. I really did. Far be it from me to crap on someone else’s life like that. This guy was trying very had to make it as romantic as possible but he didn’t really have a game plan in mind.

Which left a staff of servers to come up with a way to save the day.

Something to distract us from work? With the blessings of our boss? Excellent. We were all on board. This guy was going to have a fiancée tonight, just leave it to us.

I had some experience in my former life with decorating cakes and the like, so I helped design the bowls were going to use. We ended up using three, and these bowls were relatively flat with a wide brim, allowing us to write on the side. The first one said “I love you,” the second said, “You are my life,” and the last one with the cake said, “Will you marry me?” The last one had chocolate cake, lightly drizzled with chocolate sauce and decorated with a few strawberries. Stirringly romantic.

As romantic as it was, I’m sure that if I were to pop the question in a restaurant (my girlfriend is a server as well) I would get a flat refusal. Perhaps even laughter.

We gathered all the staff in the restaurant. Everyone else could wait for five minutes. This is life-changing, a major nexus in this young couples’ life, and if it took a bit longer to get your refill, how about you complain to the happy couple?

We all trouped there en masse and I was unfortunately in the back. I did see it though. She was thoroughly confused as to why there were thirty people in white shirts gathered around her table. The first plate was brought in, prompting a smile on her face.

The second plate prompted a bit of nervous laughter.

And almost as if rehearsed, the young gentlemen got to one knee in front of the table. That was when the third plate was presented with its spectacular, one of a kind garnish.

His proposal was simple. “Karen, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?”

She was crying at this point, but we heard something vaguely reminiscent of a “yes.”

And quite predictably and justifiably, almost the entire restaurant (guests included) burst into applause. I guess customers have a soul after all. The applause continued and finally sputtered out and the general din resumed.

But it never reached the table.

They had eyes and ears for only each other.

The rest of us went back to our jobs with a bit more pep in our steps.

“What happened over there?” one of my guests asked.

“I heard they really like the lobster, would you care to try some tonight?”

Hey, I have to make a living too you know.

LA Trash and WallyWorld

2006-04-10T05:51:00.000-07:00

It was a typical Friday night at the restaurant. We were packed, people were pissed because they had to wait and I was working my ass off. The strange thing about our restaurant is it is the only seafood place in town. This means that you get an interesting mix of people coming in. You have the yuppies on one end, with their angry husbands and bitchy wives (not to mention their bratty kids) and on the other end you have the crowd coming from a certain theme park, shall we say WallyWorld? Since there is no alternative within a good twenty to thirty miles, people rub elbows with people they normally wouldn't.

And I had to serve on them all. Beggars can't be choosers I suppose.

It’s hard to decide who is worse. The yuppies expect their asses kissed at every moment in the restaurant, but at least they have the green to back it up. The people from LA, well they are *ahem* economically challenged to begin with and have even less after visiting WallyWorld. They certainly have enough to cover dinner, but tipping me is simply out of the question.

It’s a party of four that sits down and I know it’s going to be trouble. Two adults and two kids. Two younger kids. I don’t think people realize how much servers despise children. Specifically unruly children. Children should be never seen and never heard. There are two reasons for this: they don’t eat that much (which means they can’t add to the bill) and they somehow make the most mess.

So they have kids. Strike one. They are looking around for me as I handle my three other tables. Strike two. They have also been waiting for an hour in the lobby. Strike three. I’m out a tip.

I put on my fake waiter smile and greet the table. Before I can get to my name, the drink order is given. Thanks asshole, I’m not a drive-thru. Of course the adults treat my like shit. That is hardly a surprise. It’s when the kids treat me like shit that it gets to me. Fruit doesn’t fall from the tree, and when it comes to these kids, it couldn’t be truer.

“I wanna Sprite!”

“I want some bread!”

I want to take my boot to your face, kid. Unfortunately, I’m vying for every penny I can with this table. I suck up. To the kids, that is. Going down to their level and talking with them like I actually care. It’s an old server trick. If you suck up to the kids, you can usually scrape some more money from the parental units. These kids however, were having none of it.

I sometimes have fantasies of taking a bat to screaming kids and cooking them. You’d think I wouldn’t do it because it would be against the law. How wrong you are. I probably wouldn’t get much of a tip if I killed a kid.

I get the drinks. I’m tempted to spit, but alas, there are too many people around. Besides, that sort of petty revenge isn't nearly enough. I am the zen master in my own little center of the universe. I bring them back to the table and I am rudely accosted before I can make it.

“It’s my kid’s birthday. Sing to him.”

Perfect. Yessah massa. Want me to shine your shoes as well?

I drop the drinks and take the most painful order possible. I’m not the least bit surprised at how long it takes to order three things. Two kids meals (seven dollars each) and one entrée to split (another fourteen dollars). I can feel my other tables stare at my back, willing me to attend to their needs.

Sorry guys, I have to attend to these people, as much as it pains me. It’s an interesting paradox. I know I’m not getting a good tip. I know that nothing I do or say will change that fact. I could duck under the table and suck the dad off and he would still give me change. But I’m compelled to give good service because they might be an exception to the rule.

I take their twenty one dollar order and ring it in. They of course get impatient almost immediately. Sorry guys, the psychic chef is off today. Your order will take as long as necessary to cook.

I delay it a little longer than usual. My petty revenges are all I have sometimes. Zen master be damned.

And I certainly didn’t go back to refill drinks.

I attend to my tables where my tip is nominally secure and notice that the food has been run to the trouble table. The kids are creating a huge mess on the floor and the adults are carefully splitting up their bottom barrel crab. Fuck em, they seem fine to me.

Halfway through the meal, with more than half the meal done, they motion me over with a curt wave. Trouble.

“We don’t like this.”

Perfect...

“I’m sorry sir, you seemed to have already eaten most of it.” Which is perfectly true. If you don’t like something, SEND IT BACK IMMEDIATELY. It isn’t going to get better with age. I can understand not liking something. Eating half of something and then deciding you don't like it, well, I can’t understand that and will not tolerate it. It amounts to the same thing as stealing. You wouldn't buy a DVD, take it home, watch half of it and then take it back because you didn't like it, so how is that okay with food?

“Well, I don’t like it, and I don’t like your tone. Get me the manager.”

Even better.

Fine, I’ll pass you off to my manager. He was a server too, you jerk. He knows your tricks. I give my boss the rundown and he shakes his head. My boss and I get along very well. He’s going to believe me over a retard customer any day of the week.

I watch the two tangle at the table. He doesn’t want to pay. My boss calmly points to the mostly eaten crab. The wife gets into it. My boss keeps his fake manager smile (much akin to a fake server smile).

He walks over to me.

“Comp the crab.”

I do so. I drop the now fourteen dollar check. They pay with a twenty. And want change.

They do not leave a tip.

What a waste of an hour.

That’s when the two yuppie couples sit in my section.

My predatory instincts kick in, the LA trash forgotten, and I put on my best fake server smile. Another table, another day, another chance.

I am Jack’s drive thru window.

The Blue-Haired Invasion

2006-04-10T05:34:00.000-07:00

It’s a slow rainy day at the restaurant. No LA trash, no Tragic Mountain people. Just suits in for their power lunches. That and old people. More than kids and the low rent people going to Tragic, do I detest old people. Give me the most tired, worn out hooker with eight kids over a group of old people. Which is exactly why I hate day shifts.

Which is exactly why my nightmare walked through the door.

It was a group of seven old women. They all belonged to Our Lady of Fuck Who Cares and they were coming in for some lobster! Well, okay, maybe not lobster. But seafood certainly. At least, you know, our biscuits are great. Those are free right? Yeah, I’ll have some of those.

I feed my hostess a death stare and wonder which god I pissed off to deserve this. Probably all of them. I try to rationalize. I didn’t hate old people before I started working as a waiter. It’s really their fault for being cheap.

As it is their fault for not having the requisite eight people for auto-gratuity.

Merde…

Hello ladies. My name is AngryWaiter. Can I get you all something to drink to start off with? Seven waters? We have many different soft dri… no? Very well then, waters it is. Separate checks for whom? All of you? Of course not. I would never think of taking my life with my pen right here and now. You, now that’s a different story. You aren’t worth anything to me besides the eight dollars I’m going to make. And you will work me hard enough to earn every penny. Watch me suck up to your dry, wrinkled hides. Ah well, you’ll be dead soon and you can stop sucking off my taxes.

Angry no? I lost myself there for a second. I would of course never say that. You dear readers are getting a little glimpse into what a server truly thinks sometimes. Especially when he has to put in lots of work for no real reward.

Anyway, I retrieve the seven free waters and take their orders. And of course, special instructions on every one. The kitchen is going to kill me. Not if I beat them to it, however. A restaurant is a pretty easy place for suicide. Lots of sharp objects lying around.

It takes me as long as it would’ve to cook the food to explain said food, and by the time I go back out, the ladies all need refills. I need a valium, but we don’t get everything we want now, do we? At least they are all drinking the same thing… oh wait. It’s still free, not contributing anything to the seven checks I have. But I manage to maintain my server smile.

The food comes out to perfection, as it always does (insert sarcastic laughter here) and I bring it out to the ladies. And then comes the flood of requests. I should say trickle, because it inevitably happens in bits and pieces. I leave to gather some butter and come back to requests of more cocktail sauce. Some blue-hair now needs tartar sauce. And on and on it goes…

What is so damned hard about taking stock of the situation and giving me a list of all things needed for your meal? Not only do you get everything all at once, you don’t run me to death for an extra napkin you probably won’t use.

After the Germans have been appeased with cocktail sauce and napkins, I allow them to eat. I check back in five minutes, just as a good server should (if yours doesn’t, it’s either ‘cause he’s a bad server or too busy or he knows your probably won’t tip, you cheap bastard. Probably the latter.) and find them eating painfully slowly.

They will be here for a while.

I hunker down and pray for a flood to sweep through and break all their hips. I contemplate doing it myself.

It’s still slow and I amuse myself by flirting with the other female servers and doing sidework, which is the work done behind the scenes for the general upkeep of the restaurant. Yeah right, I don’t do any actual work, I just play grab-ass.

I check back. Still not done.

Ten minutes. No sign of the end.

Half an hour. Shoot me in the face.

Forty-five minutes. Has time decelerated?

Hour and fifteen. Is this really my life?

ONE HOUR AND FOURTY FIVE MINUTES. These old birds finally finish pre-chewing their food and swallowing. One cleans her dentures. I fear vomit may follow closely.

The problem with split checks is that it lowers your tips tremendously. If people see a hundred dollar check, they will tip more generously than say ten people with ten dollar checks.

And if it is seven old people with seven small checks, well sir, you are fucked.

And I was.

Total table time: two hours.

Total tip: eight dollars. Just as I had predicted.

Total amount per hour: just under four. Actually, way under four. Uncle Sam takes his cut too.

Pillaging complete. I go flirt with the ladies of another table (sometimes I feel like I should be an escort. It amounts to the same job and I would probably get paid more) and dread the next table of old ladies sitting in my section. Maybe there is a way to kill my hostess and dump her body…

Probably better off just killing the old people. No one misses them, right?

Right?

Introduction... Fantasy and Reality

2006-04-06T06:05:00.000-07:00

You come into the restaurant and are greeted by a smiling youth. Table for two? she asks. Of course, you say. She whisks you away to your table, the delectable smells from the kitchen hit your nose and all is well with the world. She sits you at the booth, a quiet cozy corner of heaven and explains the server will be right with you.

And there he is, in his pressed and clean uniform, ready to start you off with drinks. He introduces himself with a smile and brings your drinks in a timely manner. In no time at all, you have ordered and you begin a quiet and loving conversation. There is no one but you in the world and all is at peace.

In what seems like blink of an eye, your food arrives, piping hot and with everything lovingly prepared. Everything is to your specifications and nothing more is needed. The server is attentive to your every need, but not overbearing and leaves you to your feast.

You finish the fantastic meal and summon the waiter with a polite nod. He asks if any dessert is necessary and suggests some after dinner drinks. You agree and order. The dessert is brought out warm and your drinks help you warm up even more. After an hour and a half, you again summon the waiter and ask for the bill. You are generous, leaving a wad of cash for the wonderful server and depart on cloud nine.

This is, of course fiction. Most tables won't go like this. Reality is, you will have to wait, sit at a table less than desirable (probably by the kitchen) and will of course have no quiet thanks to the children sitting two tables over. The food will be wrong, or lacking and that is of course the waiter’s fault for not understanding the psychic messages you sent him. He will probably also have stains on his shirt from his last tables and the ironing will have faded by now. He will definitely be tired and not really in the mood to attend to your every whim. He either won’t be there enough, or too much and you will be annoyed any way you cut it. He also won’t offer dessert because he wants you to leave so he can make so more money on a new table and after you leave the restaurant, he doesn’t really care what the hell you do. You will tip poorly because things weren’t perfect for you, the server will be in a worse mood and curse the day you thought it might be a good idea to go out.

Look, I’m not saying it’s a terrible job. It’s usually good money for what amounts to unskilled labor. The hard fact is however, servers hate you. We want your money and none of your shit. We put up with rude customers, even ruder children, cheap people, old people, ethnic people, stupid people, assholes, passive aggressive people and if we are lucky the occasional understanding soul with some money. We do it on a daily basis, with a smiles on our faces and hate in our hearts. There are millions of us out there, serving you, attending to every ridiculous request and dealing with your inane bullshit all the time.

That’s why I started this blog. I don’t think people realize how bad it is in the trenches. Servers are the first line of defense in a restaurant and when things go wrong it is ALWAYS our fault and it is our tips that suffer. We are college students, lifers, single mothers, any and all types that you can think of. There are literally millions of servers working today. We need a voice, letting you know that we are angry. We don’t like going to work and getting treated like shit. We don’t walk into your boardroom and yell at you because something went wrong with whatever piece of shit that we bought. Why do you come in and yell at us when something goes wrong? It isn’t right.

All these stories are true and unexaggerated. They don’t need to be. The truth is fucked enough. All sorts of people walk though the doors of my restaurant. All types of ethnicities, social and economic classes are represented. And they all piss me off (of course, some more than others).

If what I talk about offends you, you should take a good, hard look at how you act in a restaurant. Do you talk down to your server? Do you make impossible requests and expect perfection at all times? Do you never see your server as a person? Do you find the cheapest thing on the menu and then don’t tip on top of that? If so, you are part of the problem. People, you need to learn how to eat out. Yes, there is a right way, and no, you don’t know how to do it yet. That’s why you have your AngryWaiter here to help you.

So please remember, servers are people, people with families and friends and emotions and daily lives outside of serving you. There are millions of us, and we are tired of shitty tips, rude customers, and being talked down to.

And for the love of god, tip your fucking waiter.