A Waiter’s Life

It’s been an interesting two days at work.

Last night I sold the least I’ve ever sold on a weekend night.

Tonight I sold the most I’ve ever sold in one night.

Last night people were nicer and tipped better.

Tonight I wanted to push everyone down the elevator shaft.

For example.  If you are in a bad mood.  And you are tired because you’ve been shopping since 4:00 a.m.  Don’t fucking take it out on me.  I didn’t make you come to NYC.  I didn’t make you shop all day at stores that you probably have at home.  And I sure as hell didn’t make you choose this restaurant, which is on an hour wait.  What I did do, was come to the lobby and rescue you from your wait, and seat you well ahead of a lot of other people.

Your response.  Can’t we have a regular table.  My response.  OF course you can have a regular table.  Just head right back to the lobby and I’m sure they’ll have a table for you in 30 to 40 minutes.  (This usually brings them over to my side).

Then because you are in a bad mood you get into a fight with each other about whether you’re going to drink or not.  Can we talk here?  You are all middle aged fucking women.  You don’t need anyone’s approval to drink.  If you want something, order it.  If not don’t.  And please don’t make me fucking stand there and wait while you have the discussion.

And now can we talk about ordering food and how that order is processed in the kitchen.  You place your order.  For example you order wings, fajitas and a salad.  As I’m about to walk away you ask whether you should order the nachos or the skins as an appetizer.  I recommend the nachos because they are faster (I don’t say this to them) and they are easier to share.  I tell them I’ll put the order right in.

And so I leave and I put the water, diet and Stella into the computer, with the order for the nachos.  I don’t put the order in for the rest of the food because the nachos are supposed to be an appetizer.  Something you enjoy first.  I get the drinks and drop them off.  No we do not have Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  We are a classless joint, but not that classless.  Yes, I know but I have no idea who the girl was that told you we did.  Can you point her out to me?  Was she a waitress?  No?  A busser?  No.  A host?  Maybe?  She probably didn’t know I’m sorry.  I do have a raspberry lemonade that I can recommend.  It’s new and it’s very tasty.  “But I don’t want ice tea from a machine.  I want something like Mike’s with alcohol.”  Yes, I know.  (I’ve been fucking listening and having this conversation for way too long now.)  Actually the raspberry lemonade is mixed at the bar with fresh raspberries and I serve about a 100 of them a day.  Everyone loves them.  Okay, if you are sure.  I’ll bring it right out.

And so I get the lemonade and while I’m gone, the Nachos hit the table.  I do a sweep down the aisle to make sure everyone’s okay.  I seat a table and I get some drinks and I head to the computer to enter the rest of their order.  It’s maybe been five minutes since the nachos were delivered.  And I continue my night.  I stop by a couple of times and it’s clear you guys aren’t happy but you seem to be okay.

And then you call me over to ask if there’s a problem with the food.  Why is it taking so long.  At most it’s only been 15 minutes since I put it into the computer.  Making it 20 minutes since you got your nachos.  Which you are still enjoying I might add.  I say that I’m sure it will be out soon.  At which point you make some snide comment about having to wait so long.  (What I’m thinking:  Listen bitch if it weren’t for me, your sorry ass would still be in the lobby sitting on the floor waiting for a table.  You WOULDN’T be complaining at my table about the food drinks that you are already enjoying.)  I assure them that the food is coming again.  And again I get a snide little comment.  I say (this time out loud):  This isn’t McDonalds we don’t have salads in boxes waiting to be picked up at the register.  I’m sure your food will be right out.  (At this point I knew that I was lost, but sometimes you cut your losses and say fuck it.)

And so I went to the kitchen and expedited their food.  And they hated all of it.  Of course they wouldn’t just come out and say it.  They made little comments under their breath and picked at it.  In front of me.  They said things like, “This isn’t what I was expecting”  “I thought it was going to come with the citrus dressing”  I thought the dressing would be on the side.”

Fuck YOU!!!

I stopped checking on them.  I stopped trying to make them happy.  Some times you just have to take one for the team.

Finally they asked for the check.  I knew that I wasn’t going to get a tip but I thought what the hell.  I dropped off the check.  It took sometime for them to figure it out but finally I was called over and asked to put 32.00 on a credit card and the rest was in cash.  With out the credit card tip there was an extra four dollars on 78.00.  So I dropped the receipt off to be signed.  Thanked them.  And walked away.  Two minutes later I walked by the table only to discover that they’d taken the credit card slip with them.  FUCK.  That means no extra tip for me.  It’s no big deal that we don’t have the slip.  The information’s in the computer and it’s all processed from there.

But even paying they had to be a pain in my ass.

Tune in to tomorrow when I tell the story of threatening to call the cops on two English 21 year olds.

It’s more fun than you can imagine.

2 thoughts on “A Waiter’s Life

  1. javabear September 28, 2008 / 19:54

    You have an interesting job. Interesting in the way root canals are interesting. They left you no tip at all? Not even a piddly little token tip? They should have gone to a totally classless Mikes Hard Lemonade restaurant. They would have fit right in.

  2. urspo September 28, 2008 / 23:35

    I could never do you job
    but then again my job and yours have several simlarities, so I should not be too shocked here!

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