How To Scam Free Food

Someone posted something the other day (shout out to Rebecca) that made me remember an event that happened years ago. She was mentioning that age old custom of giving your tables a survey or comment card to fill out to ensure that they had wonderful service and enjoyed their crappy pre-cooked food. Most of the time, people will only bother filling out a form when they want to complain about something. No one ever takes the time to really compliment you on these things except on very rare occasions. The little forms suck, but there is a way you can make them work for you rather than against you. It just takes some effort. And stamps.

When I was working at the now defunct Houlihan's in lovely Times Square, we were always busy with tons of tourists who came into the restaurant because of its familiarity. Don't ask me why anyone would get into an airplane and travel hundreds or thousands of miles and then end up eating dinner at a place that is also in their local mall. But people did. I guess once you're in New York you get so homesick that you need nachos and Sysco food products. Now we didn't have comment cards or surveys there but plenty of times people would ask to speak to a manager in order to complain about the quality of food or their service. It was always surprising to me when people thought their steak or salmon tasted less than ideal or that they thought the service was sub-par. C'mon. It's Houlihan's. In Times Square, for fuck's sake. Of course everything there will suck ass. Eventually I had had enough of people dissing my service. Granted, my service sucked, but I was sick of bitches telling my manager about it. I devised a plan. A very special Bitchy Waiter plan.

One night I typed a letter from a "customer" that praised my serving skills. I went on an and on about how I went above and beyond their expectations. How I recommended what they would like the most on the menu and then how delicious the food was. I even wrote some fake ass bullshit about how good I was with their children and how I made them laugh and finish their veggies. I also wrote that I suggested which Broadway shows they would enjoy. Basically, I said that I was an angel sent from Heaven so that I could serve at Houlihan's. I then put that letter into an envelope, stamped it and addressed it to Houlihan's. Then I put that envelope into another envelope and sent it to my friend who lived in Georgia and mailed it to him. When Ron got the letter, all he had to do was drop it back into a mailbox so it would be postmarked Georgia and no one would ever suspect that I wrote it about myself.

A few days later, the letter appeared. My manager was elated. She was so proud of me that she stapled the letter to the bulletin board so everyone could see what high standards they needed to live up to. I was the superstar waiter of Houlihan's Times Square. Only a couple of people knew that I wrote that shit myself while most people just couldn't believe that someone would write that about me. But there it was in black and white and hanging in the kitchen. And it was postmarked from Georgia so it must be true. The letter stayed there for a few weeks. Best of all, my manager rewarded me with a $50 gift card for TGIFridays. Yep. And all it cost me was about ten minutes of time and two stamps. It really is one of my proudest moments. My manager would be so disappointed if she knew the truth. There was no family in Athens, Georgia who loved me. I'm sorry, Gladys. But thanks for the free food.

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It's St. Patrick's Day: Get Trashed

I hope you started your day with some pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers because today is St. Patrick's Day. Yes, I am talking about Lucky Charms, nature's perfect breakfast food other than Cap'n Crunch or Honeycombs. If you needed to have a warm breakfast, then perhaps you settled for a bowl of McCann's Irish Oatmeal and if you are a big ol' lush, maybe you just sucked down a Guinness. If that is the case, do not feel bad about it, for today is St. Patrick's Day and heavy drinking is not only expected, it is encouraged. Does anyone even really know what St. Patrick did? He's a Catholic something or other and the only hard-core Catholic I know that would be able to give me the lowdown on the guy is probably on her fourth or fifth beer by now. (Marlene, call me. It's been a while.) Did he chase the rats out of Ireland or see the image of the Virgin Mary on a piece of Irish soda bread toast? I have no idea. Maybe he turned water into green beer? Regardless, today is the day that we all wear green and some people pull out their stupid ass "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons and we go around pinching people who forgot to wear the color of the day. We go to McDonald's for a shamrock shake and then we head over to Bennigan's, Houlihan's, or Maggie Mae's Irish Pub to get as trashed as we possibly can because that is what St. Patrick and the Catholic church would want. We must honor that tradition, y'all. Get trashed. And don't worry if you forgot to wear green. If you drink enough pints, your face will soon be the right shade.

When I worked at Houlihan's, we had a big ass countdown clock one year counting down to the minute that people felt it was acceptable to order beer at 11:00 AM. Why people thought Houlihan's was a traditional Irish establishment, I'll never know. Are nachos and chicken fingers Irish? Now that I think about it, I do recall hearing a story about how St. Patrick needed to feed a hundred billion people one time but all he had was one block of Velveeta cheese and a lone bag of Doritos. But miracle of miracles, he fed those multitudes nachos until they were satisfied. That is the power of St. Patty!

I will keep this post brief because I know you are probably already drunk by now (Marlene, call me) and you are ready to go put on your leprechaun costume and run around looking for a pot of gold. I will be at work tonight serving all the drunk bitches in green but I will do it with a smile on my face. For that is what St. Patrick, the patron saint of nachos, would want. Happy St. Patrick's Day!


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Don't Make Me Throw a Penny at You

This story happened years and years ago, but it's a goody. I was working in this tourist trap in Times Square in New York City where food was way overpriced but tourists came anyway because it was familiar. Let's just say it was hypothetically called Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh Ave. It was the lunch rush and in my station were three secretary bitches who were happy to have someone to boss around for a change. They ordered their usual salads with everything on the side but extra everything and lemons for the waters and separate checks and anything else that screams "we are bitches." It was a busy Wednesday where everyone in the restaurant had tickets to see Cats or Phantom of the Opera or anything else that screams "we are tourists." After a while the three secretary bitches called me over and asked me if their food was ready. I gave them my standard reply: "I guess not because if it was ready it would be here." Dumb bitches. They didn't like my attitude. Hmmm, can't imagine why. Their food came out and they complained about a variety of things. I don't recall what exactly but it was probably the usual: the bread is not warm enough, the Diet Coke is flat, no one wants to sleep with us because we are big fat snort pigs. I threw their check down and went on with ignoring my other tables. When they got up to leave they left money on the table to pay for the check and when I saw it I knew what to expect. Exact change, no tip. But then I saw my tip: one penny in the bottom of a glass of water. I fished it out and scoured the room looking for the whores. They were already gone, so I ran downstairs out to 49th Street and looked both ways. I had to decide whether to go left or right. I decided to the right and ran down the street, penny in hand. About halfway to Sixth Avenue I saw them. After knocking a couple of tourists out of the way, I went to the head secretary bitch and tapped her on the shoulder. "You forgot something at your table," I said. "Oh, I did? What?" "This," I said and I flicked the penny at her. Suddenly everything was in slow motion. I watched the copper coin twirl through the air as her face recoiled in terror. The penny hit her right tit and bounced to the sidewalk. I turned around and walked back to the restaurant giddy with pride. She was right behind me. I could practically feel her hot honey mustard breath on the back of my neck.

When I got back inside, I headed straight to the bathroom to hide out because I knew I was about to be in big trouble. After a few minutes of crouching in a stall, a co-worker found me and said that my manager needed to see me right away. I slinked into her office ready to be berated. My manager shut the door and turned around to look at me. I was surprised to see that she had a huge smile on her face. She told me that even though the bitches were in fact bitches and they deserved to have a penny thrown at them, what I did was wrong and she was going to have to suspend me for three days so that all of my co-workers knew that throwing pennies at customers was not acceptable behavior for our fine dining establishment. Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh. Hypothetically. I understood my punishment but wished I had thrown a roll of pennies at the bitch instead of just one.

My response to being suspended for three days? "Okay, cool. Can I cash out now because it looks like I have a three day weekend ahead of me." After my three days off, I returned to work as a legend. A hero. I penny-throwing hero legend.


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So Many Liars

I was sitting on the sidewalk in Times Square yesterday at 6:50 AM because I was waiting in line for an audition. Sure I was watching men pile crap into a garbage truck, I could smell the stench of someone who was probably sleeping in that exact spot a few hours before and the air was a little chilly, but it was all better than being at work. I was just two short blocks away from The Houlihan's that I spent so many happy hours at so I want to tell a story of those days.

We used to have this bartender named Evy. She was grumpy, mean, a habitual liar and not a very nice person. I always managed to stay on her good side because if you didn't, she would flat out refuse to make your drinks. You could be so in the weeds and then you finally run over to the bar to pick up your ten million pina coladas and they wouldn't be there. And Evy would say something like, "Oh I must have been changing the printer paper when you placed your order. Sorry." Yeah, she was that kind of person. I quickly learned to kiss her ass in order to make my life easier. We worked together for a long time and after a while all of her wild and fanciful stories seemed to be a little too wild and fanciful. It took me and the rest of my co-workers a long time to realize that she was making up shit left and right. One day she came into work with her head half shaved in this kind of mid-90's asymmetrical bob deal. It was not like her to have a hair cut like that so we all asked her what made her decide to go so radically different. She had an answer:

Well, I went to Las Vegas this weekend just because I thought it would be fun. So I was there with a friend of mine and we were at a bar. The bartender was totally ignoring us and I really wanted a drink so I told him that I was getting mad and I went off in him. The man next to us, turned to me and said, "You are the meanest most horrible vile person I have ever seen in my entire life. And I want you to be in my movie. So he cast me as a gang member with a bad attitude and he wanted me to cut my hair this way. So I did. Because I'm gonna be in a movie. Me! And I'm not even an actor! Isn't that crazy?

It was at this point that we all started to realize that Evy might have a wee case of the pathological liar syndrome. Of course the movie deal fell through. Because it never happened to begin with. Her stories were always big. Like the time she went to a Knicks game and ended up in the VIP seats "just because" or when she was going to go to Paris next week "for the fun of it" but then it didn't happen because something else came up. If she was a Facebook friend, her status would always be like, "OMG, just because I turned down Prince William's proposal now he's gonna marry that skank Kate Middleton" or "I ♥ scratch off lottery tickets. Just one $500! Again."

I don't know whatever happened to Evy. I can''t even remember if she left Houlihan's first or if I did. It was impossible to be her friend because you never knew what her real story was. All I knew to do was listen to her tales and nod enthusiastically so that when I needed something from the bar, she would just make it. Life was simple then. Good luck, Evy, wherever you are. To hear her tell it, she probably had plastic surgery, changed her name and got racial reassignment and is now living in the White House as our first African-American first lady.

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What I Did For Ricki Lake

I have been called a fame whore. If that is what I am because I crave attention, fame, the spotlight, and more attention, then so be it. Have I always been this way? Yes. Yes, I have. Most actors are like that whether they will admit to it or not. Over the years, there have been many ways that I have tried to get my mug on the television, from submitting to reality shows (I was a semi-finalist for the very first Survivor, but they chose Richard Hatch instead) to writing to the ladies at The View and asking if the next time they do a dentistry makeover show, can I please come on and get some new choppers. But the first time I tried one of these methods was way back in the early 90's when I tried to get on The Ricki Lake Show with my friend Corinne.

At Houlihan's Corinne and I used to watch television and share breakfast together before the shift started. Egg and cheese on a roll from the deli downstairs. The same deli where I met Carol Channing. We saw that the talk show was looking for guests for a "My Co-worker Needs a Makeover" episode. Corinna and I hatched up a plan. We would submit her for a makeover because she wanted new clothes and I wanted to be on television. I called the show and left our story on their answering machine:

Ricki, my friend Corinne needs a makeover so bad. She always wears the same thing and she never wears make up or brushes her hair. She's a pretty girl, but she needs help. Ricki, whenever we go out after work, she wears her uniform and it's all covered with food and stains but she doesn't care. Ricki, my friend needs a makeover. Help!

We hung up and thought "whatever." A few days later a producer called us. This was in the days before cell phones so I dunno how they got in touch with me. I had an answering service back then or maybe a pager. It was so long ago they might have sent the message via Pony Express. But they wanted to meet us! That day. Could they come to the restaurant right then and interview us? Oh shit! I ran over to Corinne and told her that the Ricki Lake people were on the way and we needed her to look like she needed a makeover stat. Truth be told, Corinne is a very pretty girl. In no way did she need a makeover and she would never have gone out after work wearing her uniform, but this was The Ricki Lake Show. If the truth had to be bent a little, then we would bend it. We forgo seeing to our customers as we set out to get prepared for our interview. Corinne wiped off her makeup and wrinkled her uniform. She put her hair up in some ratty ass pile on top of her head and I think we put some honey mustard and other condiments on her clothes. They showed up about twenty minutes later. The producer was some chick who was about 25 years old and she had a big old Polaroid camera hanging around her neck. She interviewed us for about ten minutes as we continued to ignore the customers who were dying of thirst and starvation in our stations. This was television. Priorities, people. They snapped a picture of Corinne and said they would be getting back to us.

They never did. It must have been crystal clear that Corinne just wanted a new outfit from Chico's or TJ Max and I just wanted to be on television. She probably saw right away that Corinne didn't need a makeover and they moved on to the next batch of potential guests. We were crushed. As the week ended and we realized that our dream of meeting Ricki Lake was not going to happen, our lives slowly went back to normal. We kept watching The Ricki Lake Show each morning and sharing our egg and cheese on a roll, but it never quite tasted the same as it did before Ricki Lake reached out and dangled a brighter future in front of us. It's okay. Corinne and I will always have Houlihan's.


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Thank You For Being a Friend

One of the best things about working in a restaurant is usually the people you work with. Granted there are always a few folks who you could do without, but for the most part the co-workers are one of the things that makes waiting tables tolerable. (The tips that allow you to pay your mortgage and buy food goes without saying.) How many of us have stayed at a job way longer than we should have just because all of of our friends worked there? I worked at Houlihan's for two and a half years or so. About eighteen months of that was just because I had so much fun with friends like Jane, Randie, Corinne and Kim. (Hello ladies, if you're reading this.) The thing is, I have not worked at Huli's for over ten years and I am still friends with the people I met there. That says a lot about co-workers, right? On the other hand, sometimes it's the c0-workers who drive you away from a place.

I worked at a restaurant called Josie's once for about two weeks. I dunno what it was with all the women who worked there, but most of them were totally rude to me. They weren't helpful and they acted like they didn't have room for another bitch on staff so they wanted me out. When I start a job, I am nothing but nice. I am quiet, never curse, never complain and friendly to everyone. In fact, after I have worked someplace a for a few months someone always tells me, "Oh my God, you are so different than I thought you were when you first started." In other words, they thought I was sweet, but they figured out I'm a bitch. Anyhoo, there was this one chick at Josie's (let's call her Evilene) who was so mean. On my first day there, I was wandering around downstairs trying to find the locker room to put my stuff in. I saw a door that was cracked open and poked my head in to see if it was the right place. Evilene was there putting her shirt on. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. All she was doing was buttoning up her shirt but she acted like I just walked in on her while she was taking a dump or changing her tampon. "Excuse me, there is someone in here! I don't know where you grew up, but when you see a door closed, you knock on it first!" I apologized again and kinda laughed. "I wasn't even sure if this was the locker room and since the door was cracked open..." She interrupted me. "Well, here we knock first, okay? Got it?" What a bitch. It was a fucking communal locker/store room. It was my first day. Get over yourself. Like I really wanted to see her in her bra and panties. When I quit two week later, I told the manager that one of the reasons I hated it there was because Evilene was such a bitch.

At Houlihan's we changed clothes in the middle of the fucking dining room as we ate breakfast. We liked each other. We made each other laugh. It was what kept us all there. We were a family like a giant tree branching out towards the sky. We are a family like a giant tree, growing stronger, growing wiser. We are growing free. We are a family. The point is that no matter how crappy your job is, you can usually find something good about it and nine times out of ten, it's the people you work with. Okay, all together now: awwwwww.

(Bonus points to anyone who can name the two musicals referenced in this post.)


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Scamming for Free Food

I am on vacation so you are forced to read this old tired summer rerun of a post. If I can pull myself away from the cocktails, I will write something new. In the meantime, this is all there is. My apologies.

xo,
The Bitchy Waiter

Someone posted something the other day (shout out to Rebecca) that made me remember an event that happened years ago. She was mentioning that age old custom of giving your tables a survey or comment card to fill out to ensure that they had wonderful service and enjoyed their crappy pre-cooked food. Most of the time, people will only bother filling out a form when they want to complain about something. No one ever takes the time to really compliment you on these things except on very rare occasions. The little forms suck, but there is a way you can make them work for you rather than against you. It just takes some effort. And stamps.

When I was working at the now defunct Houlihan's in lovely Times Square, we were always busy with tons of tourists who came into the restaurant because of its familiarity. Don't ask me why anyone would get into an airplane and travel hundreds or thousands of miles and then end up eating dinner at a place that is also in their local mall. But people did. I guess once you're in New York you get so homesick that you need nachos and Sysco food products. Now we didn't have comment cards or surveys there but plenty of times people would ask to speak to a manager in order to complain about the quality of food or their service. It was always surprising to me when people thought their steak or salmon tasted less than ideal or that they thought the service was sub-par. C'mon. It's Houlihan's. In Times Square, for fuck's sake. Of course everything there will suck ass. Eventually I had had enough of people dissing my service. Granted, my service sucked, but I was sick of bitches telling my manager about it. I devised a plan. A very special Bitchy Waiter plan.

One night I typed a letter from a "customer" that praised my serving skills. I went on an and on about how I went above and beyond their expectations. How I recommended what they would like the most on the menu and then how delicious the food was. I even wrote some fake ass bullshit about how good I was with their children and how I made them laugh and finish their veggies. I also wrote that I suggested which Broadway shows they would enjoy. Basically, I said that I was an angel sent from Heaven so that I could serve at Houlihan's. I then put that letter into an envelope, stamped it and addressed it to Houlihan's. Then I put that envelope into another envelope and sent it to my friend who lived in Georgia and mailed it to him. When Ron got the letter, all he had to do was drop it back into a mailbox so it would be postmarked Georgia and no one would ever suspect that I wrote it about myself.

A few days later, the letter appeared. My manager was elated. She was so proud of me that she stapled the letter to the bulletin board so everyone could see what high standards they needed to live up to. I was the superstar waiter of Houlihan's Times Square. Only a couple of people knew that I wrote that shit myself while most people just couldn't believe that someone would write that about me. But there it was in black and white and hanging in the kitchen. And it was postmarked from Georgia so it must be true. The letter stayed there for a few weeks. Best of all, my manager rewarded me with a $50 gift card for TGIFridays. Yep. And all it cost me was about ten minutes of time and two stamps. It really is one of my proudest moments. My manager would be so disappointed if she knew the truth. There was no family in Athens, Georgia who loved me. I'm sorry, Gladys. But thanks for the free food.

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Too Darn Hot

It's hot here in New York City. It's so hot that part of my face melted off yesterday while I waited for the bus to take me to a job. I was wearing the required all-black outfit of course. Nothing says comfort like black pants and a black shirt in 102° weather waiting for the Q60 bus in Queens. Lucky for me, I was working inside but what about those people who have to brave the elements? I look around the city during a heat wave like this and feel such empathy for the folks who have to work outdoors. Okay, "empathy" is a bit much because it implies that I have feelings and concern for others. Maybe when I say "empathy" I just mean I'm glad it's not me. Those men who pour asphalt and stand all day over a big cauldron of boiling tar? Awful. Those people who work on the tops of buildings replacing roofs? Horrible. Those servers who carry trays of fajitas to people on the patio? The worst.

Ages ago I worked on a patio for Houlihan's. If you are familiar with New York City perhaps you know where the big fancy Apple Store is right at the corner of Central Park and across from the Plaza Hotel. Well there was a time when there was a Houlihan's under there and it had a huge patio. Then one day it was filled in and covered with concrete and the Apple Store came in and no one ever remembers that there is a fine dining establishment buried there. Sad really. This country does not care about its history and architecture. How can they just bury a place like Houlihans'? Anyhoo, I worked on that patio one summer and it was so freakin' hot. It was a giant square of cement that just soaked up heat and sun so when you stepped out on it, it was like the Gobi desert. I seem to recall there were a few pitiful trees that tried to give us some shade but even the trees knew it was futile and they were like, "oh fuck this shit, it's too hot." I hated to wear sunscreen because I was greasy enough from the food and sweaty enough from the humidity that to add another level of oil to my face seemed wrong. I can recall more than once seeing sweat drip off of my nose and onto a plate of food as I served it to someone. First class service, indeed.

I was only there for three months before I was transferred back to my home Houlihan's. I never really liked it there and never bonded with any co-workers. One guy that was a waiter there was the brother to the manager. So you know he didn't do shit and got away with murder. I don't remember his name, but let's just call him Richard. Or Dick for short. Everyone hated working with Dick because we all knew that no matter how half-assed he did his side work, the manager wouldn't give a shit. He never got in trouble even though he was a complete prick. One time some foreigners stiffed him which wasn't all that surprising. It was a regular occurrence seeing that we were on Fifth Avenue at Central Park and in front of FAO Schwarz toy store. Tourist central. Well, Dick was not pleased with his 0% tip and let them know about it. As they were leaving, he went up to them and asked them why they didn't leave him a tip. They were all, "er, uhh, err, no English, errr." Richard went off on them. I was shocked at how he was yelling at these people who didn't even know what he was saying. "Well, this is America and in this country, we tip. Alright? You got that?? You know what your problem is? Ya got deep pockets and short arms, that's what your problem is. Get outta here, go on and don't come back with your short ass arms and deep damn pockets." Yes, he really said that. I mean, I'm bitchy and all but that is epic asshole.

The manager, his sister, heard about it. He was told to not do it again. Such authority. That patio sucked. The people sucked, the customers sucked, the food sucked. But the suckiest thing about it was definitely the heat. Stay cool.

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Does Anyone Still Wear A Hat? While Waitressing?

Summer is upon us and the humidity level is creeping higher and higher. Here on the East Coast, the weather is a crazy thing to me. Having lived here for 16 years I am still not used to the fact that in the winter it can be 5° and then in the summer it can be 95°. What the hell kind of place is this? And I don't care what people say about it not being the heat but the humidity. If it's 95° it's fucking hot no matter what the humidity level is. The reason I'm so flumfluxxed about the temperature is because I have to wear a uniform to work and that uniform is black pants and a long sleeve black button up shirt. You try wearing that and walking into the depths of holy hell that we call the subway and try to stay fresh for more than three minutes. It's impossible. When I get off the train and get to work, it's not pretty sometimes. Sure, I could carry my uniform to work in a garment bag, but really? A garment bag that carries a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt? Not worth it. Or I could fold it and carry it in a bag, but really? And then get to work and have to wear a stain covered pair of pants and a faded dress shirt that is also wrinkled? A true dilemma. So what do I do? I wear it and and turn into a big hot sweaty mess and then serve my guests looking like a tired dried up French whore who just gave a blow job in a sauna.

At my last job, I could wear whatever I wanted which was a good thing for about two weeks. And then I realized I was getting all my real clothes stained with coffee and grease and I started longing for a uniform again. I don't know who came up with the universal uniform for restaurant folks to be khakis, but that's what it is most of the time. Pizzeria Uno, Bennigan's, Houlihan's and Black Eyed Pea were all khakis. I have spent about 13 years of my life being forced to wear Dockers and Gap pants.

My big issue with a uniform is when the restaurant requires you to wear a certain article of clothing but they make us pay for it. That pisses my shit off. If I have to wear that ugly ass burgundy shirt, Mr. Houlihan's, I don't want to pay for it. Same thing with you, Mr. Black Eyed Pea. I have to buy the green shirt with the stupid ass embroidered logo? Or sometimes they will give you one shirt but if you want another it comes out of your paycheck. Fuck that. I will take the one free shirt and wear that bitch every day until it has so much food on it that it walk itself into the restaurant and start picking up shifts.

If I have to wear a uniform, I want to wear one that has some personality. I want a little hat and an cute frilly apron and a name tag. I want a big starched white collar and white sneakers. I want bright red lipstick and a beehive. Basically, I wanna be Flo from the television show Alice. I have written about her before and I have even been her for Halloween. Now that's a uniform.

And does anyone get what the post title is referring to? Does anyone still wear...a hat?

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Uno, Dos, Trays

All waiters occasionally drop a tray, but after years and years of practice it happens less and less often. Throughout my near upon two decades of experience (I started waiting tables at the age of two) I have gotten to where having a tray at the end of my arm is as natural as having a margarita at the end of it. I can maneuver my way through a crowd with a tray of glasses held over my head with grace and elegance. A few weeks ago I dropped my pen onto the floor and just bent down to pick it up while holding a tray of martinis. I didn't think anything about it but the lady at the table acted like I should go join Cirque du Soleil or something. When I worked at the Marriott, I entered this thing called "Marriott Olympics" and had to run through an obstacle course while holding a tray with glasses of water. Didn't spill a drop. I didn't win though because this lady named Nancy had been waiting tables since the invention of food and she had more experience than me. That bitch won a free night at a hotel and some luggage for that shit. I'm not bitter though. Much.

Some servers can do that really cool spinning trick with their trays and I have never been able to master it. I was never able to spin a basketball on my finger either so I'm pretty sure I have some kind of finger tip deficiency problem. I work with a guy now who's really good at it and every time he does it I get all jealous and have to leave the room. Some people aspire to write the next great American novel or find a cure for cancer. I just wanna fucking learn how to spin a goddamn tray on my finger. Damn this finger tip deficiency of mine!

I don't remember the last time I dropped a tray but of course since I just typed that, the next time will be tonight. About a hundred years ago I was a food runner at a Mexican restaurant in Denver called Juanita's. I worked there for about nine months and never once dropped a tray. And those trays were huge-like five and six platters worth of food. On my last night of employment there, I mentioned to someone that I had never dropped a tray. I jinxed myself. At the end of the shift, after I had punched out I went to say goodbye to the kitchen because I was moving the next week. The food runner who was still on was all of a sudden weeded so I said I would take the last tray out as I left. My swan song, you might say. Of course I dropped it. Fajitas, enchiladas, rice and beans all over the place. Seriously? My last tray is the one I dropped as I am doing them a favor? I cleaned that shit up and got the hell out of Juanita's.

When I worked at Houlians's, we played a game sometimes that involved dropping a tray on purpose. The point of the game was to drop a tray on purpose. All you would do was pick up a tray and then drop the tray on purpose. It's fun to break stuff. Ah, Houlihan's...good times.

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I'm on the Broadway

For a lot of people, living in New York City and being a waiter means one thing. Actor. Of course it's a stereotype, but over the years I have come to believe that many stereotypes are based on some hint of truth. It may not be an easy thing to accept, but it does seem to be true. I live in New York City. I am a waiter. Does that mean that I fall under that auspicious umbrella of unemployed actor? Darn tootin' it does. I am one extremely talented and extremely out of work actor. And so are most of the people I work with. It's a fact of life.

When I was working in Times Square's Houlihan's, all I ever served were tourists who were on their way to see Cats or Phantom of the Opera. Tourists are known for being wide-eyed and eager to know about the people who live here so a lot of them would pepper me with questions. "Where do you live?" Where are you from?" "Is the hamburger really $15?" But there was one question I got asked more than any other.

TOURIST: Are you an actor?
ME: Yes.
TOURIST: Oh, how exciting!
ME: Well, not really that exciting.
TOURIST: Have I ever seem you in anything?
ME: Well I dunno, are you accustomed to seeing theater that happens in basements in Brooklyn?
TOURIST: No.
ME: Then, no.
TOURIST: Have you been in any movies?
ME: Yes.
TOURIST: Oh, how exciting! Which ones?
ME: Did you see Across The Universe?
TOURIST: Yes! Were you in that?? Oh my God!
ME: I was in the riot scene. There were 300 of us. I'm the one in the very back about 150 yards from the camera. I had on fake sideburns so that's probably why you don't recognize me.
TOURIST: Oh my God! And are you on Broadway?

Okay. It is Thursday night at 7:20. Every Broadway show is about to start within 45 minutes. Obviously, I am not there. I am here. Holding a tray with dirty dishes and empty glasses on it.

ME: Yes, I am currently starring in Houlihan's the Musical. Right now. You're in too. It's your line.

People asked me that all the time. Like if I was in Chicago or Grease, I would want to keep a few shifts a week at good old Houlihan's just to remember what it was like to wait tables. Bitch, please. Hell, no I ain't on Broadway. I'm a fucking waiter who has to get up at 6:00 AM so I can go get in line at 7:00 to go audition at 9:30 so I can get to the restaurant to cut the fucking lemons by 10:30. I guess, technically I was on Broadway. It just happens that Houlihan's was on 49th and Broadway. Look ma, I made it! I'm on Broadway. How would you like your burger cooked?

I Quit. Again.

I may have mentioned before that I have had a lot of restaurant jobs and therefore I have quit a lot of restaurant jobs. Every once in a while, I will give my employer the standard two weeks notice but on the very rare occasion (okay, almost every time) I will just decide that I am done with a certain job and move on immediately. That is how I left Houlihan's. Both times. Yes, I worked there, quit with no notice and then they hired me back later. I don't know who was more desperate, me or them. The second time I quit, I had really had it. I remember that it was a few before Christmas and I was sick to death of serving the dredge that had to come see The Radio City Christmas Ex-crap-aganza. Houlihan's squeezed every drop of energy I had in my body and milked me dry. It was late at night probably around 1:00 AM or so, after we had closed and we were doing our sidework ready to get the fuck out. Our assistant manager came out of the office to give us a vital piece of information that he had forgotten to tell us hours earlier: the carpets were being cleaned that night and we had to move all the tables and chairs off the carpet and into the bar area. And he just told us this now? I wanted to strangle him. I wanted him to suffer a slow death. I wanted to force feed him a Houlihan's chicken stir fry which may be the worst fate anyone would ever have to endure. That was the straw that broke this camel's bitchy ass back. That was something we should have been told hours before so we could start preparing. You know, as soon as a table was cleared drag it over to the bar so we wouldn't have to do all of them at once. There are no words to explain how pissed I was. I recall dragging chairs and throwing them with all my strength (which is not very strong so it's not as menacing at it seems) down the bar and letting them crash into the wall and the floor. My manager told me to take it easy and I gave him a big look of "fuck you." I had already done my money drop so there was really nothing keeping me there except for this carpet cleaning crap. After moving about four tables I decided I needed to leave. Christmas was days away and I really wanted that day off to go to mass and celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ our Heavenly savior. Either that or wake up and have mimosas on that day. Which ever one, it was time to compose my letter of resignation. I picked up a bev nap and did that very thing.

Dear Houlihan's,
Effective immediately, I quit.

I laid the napkin on the manager's desk, punched out and went home. I assume the carpets got cleaned. Good thing they were worried about the carpets. Yeah, the carpets were the grossest thing in that place, sure.