If you are going to ask me if the restaurant is hiring for servers and you want me to put in a good word for you, then by all means go ahead and tip me 6 bucks on a 75.00 check. After sitting there for two hours. That is after you finally got there. Your girlfriend had already been holding the table for 30 minutes. And of course go ahead and send the drink back that your oh, so precious girlfriend ordered wrong. Yes. I would do all of these things if you really think you’ll ever get a job in our restaurant.
And while I’m ranting. If you are going to sit at my table for three hours. Pull your head out of your ass and realize that at our pace that’s three turns of the table. And your measly 10 bucks on your 50 dollar tab kind of sucks.
And the winner of parent of the year:
Miss bleached out blondie in her forties that sat at my table around 11:00 p.m. The one who was kind of snippy with me when I approached the table. The one who asked to see a menu but had no intention of eating. And of course the same one who ordered a glass of white wine and a captain morgan and diet coke. And of course when I asked who the second drink was for, pointed at her daughter who’d clearly just come from her orthodontist appointment because her braces were so shiny and new. And looked like she probably needed you to sign her permission slip just to miss her history class so she could even be in New York. And the same one who got snippy again with me when I asked to see her daughters ID. And the one who informed me that since it was HER daughter and she was there with you it was perfectly fine to serve her. And the same one who told me that since I wouldn’t serve her daughter that I could just bring a glass of wine and a rum and coke for her. And the same one that got snippy with me when I told her, “but of course. Which would you like first because you can’t have them at the same time.” And the same one who finally ordered the rum and coke and get this:
Left without paying the fucking bill.
Yes. MOTHER OF THE FUCKING YEAR.