Bonjour, French Bitch

Sometimes a blog posting is hard to come up with. I scratch my head and ponder the possibilities and every so often I draw a blank. On the other hand, every once in a while a topic drops into my lap like manna from Heaven and I don't even have to think about it. Today's posting is brought to you by the Parisian bitch who sat in my station last night. I don't know what her name is so I will refer to her as Fifi le Douche.

When people come into the club, they are given a seating pass which tells hem where they are to be seated for the show. We escort them to their seat and then expect them to stay there, but Fifi needed some super glue on her ass last night because she was hop skippin' and jumpin' all over the damn place. What the customers don't get is that it's imperative for them to stay in the seat we assign to them because our totals have to match the totals of the host so that the performer knows exactly how many people were in the audience because that is how their pay is based. The more people they have in the audience, the more they can make. When people move all the fuck around it makes it difficult to ensure that all of the totals match. Get it? Simple, right? Fifi didn't get that. I went up to table 2 to take an order and Fifi coos at me that she is not sitting here really. She is "seating over zere" but she is just visiting this table. Fine. I go to her correct table to get her seating pass to write down her order and she asks for a suavignon blanc. Because she's French, you know. Two minutes later she is walking round the room and she comes up to me to ask where her wine is. Listen, le bitch, the bartender has to fucking pour it first, chill le fuck out. She wasn't even in her seat so how am I supposed to know where to put it anyway? I took her wine to her and the show started.

Fifteen minutes later, the other server tells me that table 1 wanted a Diet Coke (Coke Light, whatever) and he took it to her. Once again Fifi shows she has not the patience to wait for her server. She accosts anyone with an apron. At the end of the show, she of course wasn't at her table. She had floated off somewhere, so I placed her check on the table and went on with my business. About thirty minutes later, she was the only one who hadn't paid her bill yet so I went to find her. She was at the front of the club parlez vous Francaisin' to someone. I handed her the bill and told her I would be back in a few minutes to pick it up. Two minutes later she comes up to me with the check and says, "Excuse me, but I need to take care of this right away because I must leave." Pardon moi, but after the check sat on your table for half a fucking hour, now you're ready to leave and you act like I'm the one who is holding you up? At this point, all I wanted to do was slap this bitch with a piece of french toast, cram a french fry up her ass and then cover her with french dressing and say au revoir. Her tip was about ten percent which is spot on for the average French tourist. Fifi le Douche did a fine job of living up to every stereotype in the book. Au revoir, Fifi le Douche. Bon Voyage. Fuck off.

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I Was Stiffed by a French Bank

What is it with foreigners and tipping? We all know that the tipping culture in the United States is vastly different than in Europe. I agree that the amount of tipping in this country is overwhelming. Really? The kid at Tasti D-Lite expects me to tip him? And so does the girl at the grocery store? But I would think that every guide book that is sold in Europe has a section on tipping in restaurants, yet so many tourists play dumb when it comes down to paying a few extra bucks. Observe the $181.76 credit care receipt that I was given a few weeks ago and see the big fat nothing left in the tip line. And no, there was no cash tip. And no bus boy took it. She was French. But what gets me is that she has lived here in New York City for who knows how fucking long and she is still trying to use that tired old "I'm not from around here" excuse.

When the lady handed me her Black American Express card, I knew she was rich. The requirements for those cards are staggering: a $2,500 annual fee, $5,000 initiation fee and then you have to spend a minimum of $250,000 a year on it and there is no limit. This lady could go buy a jet, an island and if she knew the right phone number to call she could even purchase a small child who will do most excellent work in bathroom cleaning and laundry. I swiped the big heavy metallic card and took the receipts back to her table. I few minutes later when she got up to leave, I walked by the table to pick up the merchant copy. On the table was her copy, my copy and the original receipt. There was no signature. And no tip. I found her in the lobby.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I think you forgot to sign your credit card copy."

She spun around and hissed at me. "No I deed not. I signed zee copy."

"I don't think so," I said as I held two blank credit card receipts.

"Well, I signed somezing, I deed."

"No, I don't think so. There's no signature on either one of these receipts."

"Yes, I deed sign."

I looked at the itemized receipt that had a scribble on it. "Is that your signature?" I asked pointing to the chicken scratch that I thought was just that doodle that we all do to get the pen to start writing.

"Yes! See? I deed sign somezing."

"Oh, I see. Well, I need your signature on the credit card receipt."

"Why?"

Why? Does this bitch expect me to think that she has a fucking Black American Express card and she doesn't understand that she has to fucking sign the receipt when she uses it? I inhaled. "Well, I need the signature on the receipt that has your total and your credit card information on it. So if you could just sign this one-"

She interrupted me. "Well, what are you going to do wiz zee one zat I already signed??"

In my head I said, "Bitch I don't care what you do with the fucking itemized receipt that you scrawled your chicken scratch ass signature on, it's yours. Just sign the fucking credit card receipt and put a goddamn tip on it." In actuality I said, "You can keep that one for your records, ma'am."

She grabbed the pen out of my hand and signed her $181.67 credit card receipt and skipped right over the line for a tip. She put it into my hand. "Is zat okay??"

I looked at the empty line where it should have said $36.00 and said, "I guess so. Good night."

She spun back around completely fine with stiffing me even though I gave them perfectly fine service and never an ounce of attitude. Well, not until the very end anyway when it became clear that she was a royal French rich bitch who had no intention of tipping me in the first place. According to the name on the credit card she used, she's a bank. I guess the rich stay rich by saving 20% every time they go out to a place that has servers. Just think. If she goes out every night and stiffs a server on a check for $181, she can save $13,140 a year. Hopefully she uses that money for something good like the annual dues on her black fucking Am Ex card.

I sucked it up and accepted that i made no money from her rich ass. And no, I did not just add a tip. I may hate being a waiter but you know what I hate even more? Getting fired and then arrested for credit card theft and having my ass sent to prison where there are mean people who make The Bitchy Waiter seem like a sweet old lady. Plus, I don't know if there is Internet in prison and that would totally suck.


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Je Suis Un Bitch

Sometimes a blog posting is hard to come up with. I scratch my head and ponder the possibilities and every so often I draw a blank. On the other hand, every once in a while a topic drops into my lap like manna from Heaven and I don't even have to think about it. Today's posting is brought to you by the Parisian bitch who sat in my station last night. I don't know what her name is so I will refer to her as Fifi le Douche.

When people come into the club, they are given a seating pass which tells hem where they are to be seated for the show. We escort them to their seat and then expect them to stay there, but Fifi needed some super glue on her ass last night because she was hop skippin' and jumpin' all over the damn place. What the customers don't get is that it's imperative for them to stay in the seat we assign to them because our totals have to match the totals of the host so that the performer knows exactly how many people were in the audience because that is how their pay is based. The more people they have in the audience, the more they can make. When people move all the fuck around it makes it difficult to ensure that all of the totals match. Get it? Simple, right? Fifi didn't get that. I went up to table 2 to take an order and Fifi coos at me that she is not sitting here really. She is "seating over zere" but she is just visiting this table. Fine. I go to her correct table to get her seating pass to write down her order and she asks for a suavignon blanc. Because she's French, you know. Two minutes later she is walking round the room and she comes up to me to ask where her wine is. Listen, le bitch, the bartender has to fucking pour it first, chill le fuck out. She wasn't even in her seat so how am I supposed to know where to put it anyway? I took her wine to her and the show started.

Fifteen minutes later, the other server tells me that table 1 wanted a Diet Coke (Coke Light, whatever) and he took it to her. Once again Fifi shows she has not the patience to wait for her server. She accosts anyone with an apron. At the end of the show, she of course wasn't at her table. She had floated off somewhere, so I placed her check on the table and went on with my business. About thirty minutes later, she was the only one who hadn't paid her bill yet so I went to find her. She was at the front of the club parlez vous Francaisin' to someone. I handed her the bill and told her I would be back in a few minutes to pick it up. Two minutes later she comes up to me with the check and says, "Excuse me, but I need to take care of this right away because I must leave." Pardon moi, but after the check sat on your table for half a fucking hour, now you're ready to leave and you act like I'm the one who is holding you up? At this point, all I wanted to do was slap this bitch with a piece of french toast, cram a french fry up her ass and then cover her with french dressing and say au revoir. Her tip was about ten percent which is spot on for the average French tourist. Fifi le Douche did a fine job of living up to every stereotype in the book. Au revoir, Fifi le Douche. Bon Voyage. Fuck off.