The Hostess Knows Best

Contrary to what many diners may think, there is a method to the madness when it comes to seating tables. Although the hostess may look like a stupid bimbo who just gave a blowjob to one of the cooks in the parking lot next to the dumpster, she has a reason for seating people where she does. Just ignore her tousled hair and smudged lipstick and sit where she tells you to. The hostess has to make sure that every server is getting their fair share of tables so she is not bitched at later that night for playing favorites and letting one server make more money than another. Also, if she sat three tables in a row in the same station, then that server is going to be slammed and will not be able to give the service that we all know he wants to give. Trust the hostess. She has been highly trained to ensure that customers are being seated in the best possible way. Pay no attention to the scabs on her knees and the dried white substance that is in her hair. She is a pro.

Last night at the club, we had a busy show. It was pretty full meaning that it was imperative that the seat assignments that were given at the door stay in tact. Customers don't get it. "But I wanna sit with my friend on that side of the room," they say and meander to another table. It does not work like that, people. Some nights we may have as many as four different cover charges for the show. Maybe someone had a discount code or paid in advance or are a comp. The only way I know how much to charge someone is based on the slip of paper the hostess gives to the customer which also tells the which seat they are in. So when they move to another table and leave that slip, I have no clue how much to charge them.

When I was setting up the room last night, I noticed that table 39 was broken. It was all wobbly and shit and then I saw that the seat had candle wax on it. We were seconds away from opening the house, so I mentioned to the hostess to not seat anyone at that table and I would take care of it after the show. Cue Mr. Latecomer who showed up one minute before showtime. He was assigned a seat right next to the stage because it's first come first serve and his ass got there too late to warrant any kind of decent seating. I took his order as the lights were dimming and went to get his beer. When I came back into the darkened room, the singer now performing, Mr. Latecomer was not at his table anymore. A quick scan of the room showed me he had dragged his ass over to table 39. I placed the beer on the lopsided table and hoped for the best. Five minutes later, he flags me down.

"Excuse me," he whispered, "but do you have wet towel? There is something all over this chair!"

"It's dried candle wax," I said. "A wet towel won't do the trick."

He stood up (the show is happening about 18 inches from where he is, keep in mind) and starts to brush off his pants. It was pointless, because the candle wax was dried anyway and didn't get on his pants at all. "Well, I need a new seat."

"Maybe you would like to go back to the one we assigned you, sir? This table is also broken which is why we did not seat you here in the first place. You sat yourself here, remember?"

He sat back down defeated and maybe a little bit embarrassed. I handed him a bev nap so he could give another futile attempt at scraping the wax off the seat. Experience tells me that the only way that shit comes off is by scraping it with a credit card but I wanted to watch him try anyway. He eventually gave up and conceded to watching the show while balancing his Guinness and sitting in a chair covered with a dried white substance. On second thought, I can only assume it was candle wax. I never actually saw the candle spill. Who knows, maybe the hostess took her break at this table and the hardened white "wax" was residual fun left over from her time with a cook at the dumpster.

Sit where the hostess tells you to sit.

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Incomplete Parties Piss Me Off

You know what I hate? I mean other than babies, Holly Hobbie and bathroom attendants. I hate incomplete parties who sit in my station and act annoyed that I am trying to do my job even though they are still waiting for people. Last week, a woman was sitting alone and the show was about to start in 15 minutes. I politely asked her if she would like anything to drink. She acted like I asked her if her period was a light or heavy flow, you know, the most inappropriate thing ever. "Well, I am waiting for my guests and I don't think I want to drink alone. Come back when my party is complete." Okay, fine. She said "drink alone" as if she was going to be sucking down Bloody Mary's and bourbons all by herself in the corner of a dark room. Like I was insinuating that she must be an alcoholic who has no problem drinking alone. And often. (Oh God, I think I am describing myself...) I smiled at the old twat bag and told her I'd be back when her other three guests were there. Eventually, another old bag of bones joined her and I could see that they were trying to get my attention. But I knew she was still waiting for two more people and I was not going to that bitch again until her whole party was there. That's what she said she wanted and I aim to please dried up bitches like her. Yes, I do. I walked past their table about six or seven times, always managing to have my focus in a different direction. The show was five minutes away and still her party was incomplete. Two minutes and still only two of them. "Oh well, I guess they will just have to order after the show starts." Once the lights went down, Prune Face flagged me down. Even though her party was still incomplete, I graciously approached her table. "Well, we're ready to order now!" she said all prune-facey and bitchy. "Oh, are you? I was just waiting for the rest of your group to get here. Like you asked." I said this slowly so that she would miss the beginning of the performer's first song because I am just bitchy that way. "It's just the two of us now," she hissed. "The other people can't make it." I thought about how wise these people must be to have skipped an evening sitting with this insufferable biddy bitch from bloody hell. "Oh, in that case, what can I get for you to drink?" Of course she wanted a hot tea. What else would someone like that want? Maybe a decaf coffee with skim milk or a glass of tap water with lemon and no ice? Herbal tea it was. The other lady ordered a beer. Three minutes later I was back at her table with hot water and a box of tea choices. I set it in front of her and told her she could choose from our wide assortment of flavors, knowing full well that her cataract covered eyes would never be able to decipher the tea varieties in the soft candle light. Not my problem though. She should have fucking ordered when I asked her and she could have had all the light she needed. But the show had started and now all she had was one tiny votive candle. Poor her.

They didn't want anything else for the rest of the night which was fine by me. Was I a little bit vindictive with old lady twat ho from hell? Perhaps. But I just didn't like the way she treated me from the very beginning. She could have been so much nicer about asking me to come back to her table instead of barking orders at me like I was her servant or maid or husband. She had an attitude problem and my station ain't big enough for two people with an attitude problem. It's big enough for one person with an attitude problem: me. I hope she enjoyed her tea with lemon. By the way, when I picked out her lemon, I found the slimiest, most nasty ass lemon wedge I could find. It was the least I could do. Too bitchy? Probably. But I'm good with that.

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