A Candy Cane Gave me a Pain

I few nights ago at work, one of the performers was celebrating the birth of our saviour, Jesus Christ, by presenting a Christmas show of all Christmas music. Said performer was Jewish, but that's a different story. Jesus may be the reason for the season but everyone wants to sing "Jingle Bells." Religious beliefs are hastily set aside when it comes to belting out a Christmas carol or two. Before the show, someone of her entourage pulled out a bag from Jack's 99¢ Store and revealed a shocking supply of candy canes. I knew right then and there that we were about to be witness to a recreation of the infamous gummi bear event of June 2010. Sure enough, this Holiday Elf went to each and every seat and placed a candy cane in front of it as an offering to the audience. I hate when that happens. We already have candles, table tents, bev naps, comment cards, pens and table numbers on the table but by all means, add a freakin' candy cane to it too. Don't worry about me having room to put your martini somewhere. Throughout the show, I could hear the tell tale sound of crinkling cellophane as people opened up their candy canes. No one ever eats a whole fucking candy cane though. Ever. I mean, have you ever eaten a whole candy cane? We open it, break off a bit and then leave the rest where we found it. And sometimes we spit out the little bit that we started to eat leaving a sticky chunk of used up peppermint candy for someone else to clean up. That someone else was me that night.

At the end of the show, out of the seventy people there, easily 68 of them decided to spit out a portion of the candy cane. The tables looked like Santa's elves had puked after too many Peppermint martinis at the holiday party. Shards of candy cane and half eaten pieces littered my station. Everything at the tables was stickier than the headboard at Lispy Gay's house after his annual Tupperware party. It was nasty. The cellophane was everywhere and due to the static electricity in the air, it was stuck to the booths, stuck to my pants, stuck to the walls and stuck in my craw. I was cleaning up after the show and getting irritated with the whole situation when one of the songs the performer had sung came into my mind. The lyrics were now ringing in my ears:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the yule-tide gay.
From now on,
our troubles will be miles away.

After I gave up trying to understand what a yule-tide was and what made it go gay, I focused on the rest of the sweet words. "From now on, our troubles will be miles away." How silly I was being to be upset that candy canes were making a mess in my station. What kind of Grinch am I anyway? Can't I let people have a good time with a candy cane and not be upset that I have to clean up after them? "Let my troubles be miles away," I thought. Picking up an unopened candy cane, I held it in my palm and smiled. I recalled how when I was a kid it was so fun to get them in my stocking and how I used to suck on them and swirl them in my mouth until the end was as pointy as it could be. I opened the candy cane and broke off a piece, As I put it into my mouth, I expected to feel like a kid again when Christmas was fun with no stress and responsibility. I awaited the flood gates of memory to invade my mind. Instead, this is what I thought: "Fuck this candy cane tastes like shit. Who the hell buys candy canes at Jack's 99¢ Store? Fuck!" I spit that shit out and went back to cleaning tables.

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Dear Bitchy Waiter

Let us look into the Bitchy Waiter inbox and see who could benefit from the wisdom amassed from my 38 years of waiting tables.

Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here . Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:


Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I consider myself to be an ideal customer. I am polite, good tipper, not too picky. I have one pet peeve that will put a black cloud over my dining experience. I do not consider myself a slow eater but I absolutely hate it when I am enjoying the appetizer I ordered and then the salad comes 2 minutes later. Or if I am still eating my soup and the entree is brought out. Can they not see that I am obviously not ready for that food? I do get an attitude and I will ignore the new food on purpose and make sure they see me taking my time getting to it. I hesitate to send it back "until I'm ready" for fear I will piss them off. What is the best way to handle this situation?

Sign me,

Still eating

Dear Still Eating,

On behalf of all waiters please accept my heartfelt apology that they brought your food out too soon. Yes, that can be annoying I know. But the one thing that I find even more troubling in your letter is that you order an app and then follow it with a salad. Salad? After an app? I don't get it. Maybe a salad as an app or maybe a salad for an entree, but what kind of sick health nut are you that you require an app and a salad? Maybe it's my upbringing in Texas, but to me the salad is the thing that you have to eat as soon as possible so it is out of the way and you can then focus on the real food. Like mashed potatoes and chicken fried steak. But back to your problem. I think you should just say when you order that you want to make sure the first course is finished before the next one comes out. I don't imagine that any server is going to care that much and worst case scenario is that shit will sit under a heat lamp until you are ready for it. By accepting the food and then letting it sit there on your table as you take your time to get to it seems like it's only making things worse for yourself. Trust me. The waiter doesn't care if you are trying to prove a point by making sure he sees you ignoring the food. All he's thinking is, "Whatever. If you don't want it yet, just tell me to take it back to the kitchen and keep it warm." If you don't say anything, they aren't going to do anything. In the future, just order your app and entree and just tell them to not bring out the entree until you are ready for it. Or you could always hold off on your entree order until you are almost done with the app. That will work too.

Most importantly though, chill out on the salad. Eat some fried cheese sticks.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

Turns Out Suze Orman is A-Okay

I need to rescind something that I wrote about someone a long time ago. Back in September of 2009, I wrote about Suze Orman and how she had supposedly gone on to The Oprah Winfrey Show and advised people to tip only 10% in order to save money. A few people were upset with me that I failed to do any research on this rumor before posting it on the blog.

Anne Marie said:

Does anyone EVER check to see if a rumor is true before they bitch? I couldn't give a rat's ass about Suze Orman or Oprah, but there's no evidence the Suze ever said this, and sure as hell not on the Big O. Fucking Google, people. There are thousands and thousands of real asshole customers, including celebrities if that's what you care about.

Get over it, Ann Marie. It's a blog, not the goddamn fucking New York Times.

Anonymous said...

Maybe you shold (sic) do some research before you post about gossip: http://www.snopes.com/politics/business/oprahtip.asp

The link is to Snopes and confirms that the whole Suze tipping 10% is a rumor. Anonymous also can't spell.

Well, when I was working at The Place That Shall Not be Named, guess who came in to eat. Suze Orman. And she sat in the station that I was training in so I actually got to wait on her. Thankfully, I don't work there anymore because we are not allowed to Tweet, Facebook or blog about the celebrities who come into the restaurant. But my ass was fired so I can blog away about it. Suze Orman was so fucking cool. She was friendly, polite, charming, gracious and funny. When a table next to her wanted to say hello, Suze was more than willing to have a conversation with them. "Girlfriend," she told them. "You must get the sundae for dessert. You. Will. Love. It." And Suze was generous too. Their bill was about $250 and they left a $100 tip. That is fucking cool. Of course, I was only training and didn't get to see any of that money and because of the way that place tipped out the server only got to keep about $35 bucks of it.

But I take back what I said about Suze Orman. She is one cool, big tippin', big grinnin', lady lovin' financial expert and I would be happy to have her in my station again any time. Suze, please accept my apologies.


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I'm Freakin' Sophisticated

Last night I decided to class my ass up a bit and went to a wine and cheese bar. After getting over the initial shock that a wine and cheese bar sells only wine and cheese, I went with a very delicious sounding glass of Pinot Grigio that had notes of light citrus and delicate floral aromas that were complemented by hints of tropical fruit flavors. It was also the cheapest. I sat in a leather wing back chair with my smoking jacket on enjoying the company of good friends and listening to the jazz music that played softly over head. The candles cast a pale warm glow across the room and the Christmas tree in the corner made the place feel like a second kind of home. The smell of cured meets and savory crackers filled my nose and the clinking of wine glasses was oh so comfortable. Then another sound erupted that was incongruous with the atmosphere. The sound was that of a little girl who was screaming with wonder at the Christmas tree that only moments ago had seemed so comforting. "What the hell is a little girl doing in a bar?" I hissed to a friend. I spun my head around to see where the parent of this wayward tot was and I saw her sitting at a table holding another child. Now there were two things ruining my night; a little girl and a little boy. No, this was not happening. I went to this wine bar to be sophisticated and shit, not irritated and shit. The little girl started running towards our end of the room. I quickly shot a look that I thought would effectively create an invisible wall around my friends, but this little girl crashed through my barrier and sat on the step next to us. Of course she screamed as she ran. The mother got up and rushed over to the brat. I eagerly anticipated seeing a swat on the butt or a slap on the wrist to teach this kid a lesson. But no. The mother simply said, "No, no we don't want to bother these other people, sweetie." Newsflash, Mom: too late. I'm bothered. The mother then took the little girl by both hands and spun her around while the little girl laughed. And screamed. Then the little boy wanted a turn. What the fuck is wrong with people? Do they not see I am trying to be all mature and cultured? I'm sittin' in a freakin' wine bar for cryin' out loud. Jesus H. Christ.

The parents let the kids play as they finished their glasses of wine. Meanwhile, I had blood dripping out of my ears from listening to the kids scream with laughter at whatever the fuck makes a four year old scream with laughter. More than once I saw mom get up and join in on the fun making the kids even louder. It was simply not possible for me to give them an eye that was any stinkier than the one I was giving them. After about 15 minutes, I noticed that they asked for the check. Either, it was the kids bedtime or the parents finally realized that their darling children were annoying the fuck out of everyone else in the bar. After they left, I readjusted my face from the scowl and let my eyes resolve back to their natural state of bleary and bloodshot. Finally, I could get all sophisticated. I pulled out my pipe and put my feet up on the ottoman ready to enjoy my night of being civilized. I retied my ascot and ordered my second glass of wine, but this time I didn't get the cheapest one. I got the second cheapest one. 'Cause I'm sophisticated and shit.


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Don't Care Who Pays; Just Pay

Maybe it's me, but I am rarely in a situation where my friends and I are fighting to pay the check. It has been rumoured (and confirmed) that I am cheap, stingy, greedy and poor. So last night when I saw two people arguing over who would have the privilege of paying the bill, it was like looking into this weird other world that makes no sense to me. Coming from a history of dollar menus, Top Ramen and trailer parks I give thanks when someone says "no, let me pick up the check." Here is what I do not say after hearing those words: "Oh no, let me get it." Instead I say, "Okay, but let me order another round first then." (Right, Marlene?)

Last night at table six, three different people out of five wanted to be the big shot and pay the bill. The check was substantial too; about $179. As they were all flashing their credit cards at me trying to get me to take theirs, I looked at the two other people and gave them a knowing look. I shared a brief telekinetic moment with each of them as we looked deep into each other's souls and recognized the cheap ass kinsmanship we shared. Meanwhile, three credit cards were being thrust at me. I have a rule. The first person who either says they are paying or gets the card or cash in my hand is the one who pays. I don't care. I wish I could just flat out ask who is going to tip the most because then that would be who will pay, but it somehow seems a bit tacky to do that. I may be be cheap, but I ain't tacky. Okay, I admit it. I am cheap and tacky. Case in point. So I took the credit card from the pasty faced man because he was the one who made eye contact with me first and had his credit card the most accessible. As I walked away from the table, I heard the other two wannabees grumbling about how I should have taken their credit card. Again, it makes little or no difference to me who pays. Unless Pasty Face's card was declined, he would be paying. The only time I may go back on my own rule is when the people who are both wanting to pay are of different genders. In that case, I always go with the man. No, not because I think a gentleman always pays or I think that women don't deserve equal rights. It's because in my experience, men just tip better. Sorry ladies, it's a fact. If I have a choice between a four top of men or a four top of women, bet your bottom dollar that I am going to take the men. In the case last night, all three who wanted to pay were men, so Pasty Face won. When three men are trying to outdo each other by flashing their American Express cards, I just wanna tell them to get a ruler, go to the bathroom and measure your dicks already.

Pasty Face's card was successfully run and he left me a fat 20% tip, so I definitely was pleased with the outcome. The two other men probably felt like Pasty Face was the winner but in my eyes the winners were the two silent people who never offered to pay in the first place. They kept their mouths shut, their eyes down and their penis in their pants and left without having to open their wallets all evening. Job well done, you cheap sons of bitches. I couldn't have done it any better myself.


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Happy Two Year Anniversary to Me

Today is the two year anniversary of The Bitchy Waiter. Yes, time flies when I am bitching. In the two years that I have been writing, I have managed to come up with 378 topics and what you are reading right now is number 379. At this moment, there are 3,460 fans on Facebook and 2,812 followers on blogspot. Incredible. I looked up the traditional anniversary gifts to see what I should be expecting for gifts and I was rather disappointed. The traditional gift to give for a second anniversary is something made of cotton. The modern gift is china. Both of these sucks. When I think of cotton, I think of fabric that makes me think of dinner napkins which makes me think of working in a restaurant. Fuck that gift. When I think of china of course it makes me think of clearing tables of plates. Fuck that gift too. Maybe I should consider this a birthday instead of anniversary. So I did a little research to see what the average two-year old should be up to and this is what I found. A two year old should be able to:

• walk alone (like they do in my station).
  
• pull toys behind him (like they do in my station).
  
• climb onto and down from furniture unassisted (like they do in my fucking station).
  
• dump things out of containers (like they do to my sugar caddies in my mother fucking goddamn station).
  

Forget it, I can't go on. I hate two-year olds. So for my anniversary/birthday there is something I want. I don't want you to all sing "Happy Birthday" to me as you present me with a partially frozen birthday cake that has a candle in it that someone found in the back of the drawer. I want more fans. If everyone who reads this could just convince one other person to "like" me on Facebook maybe I could reach 5,000 by the end of the year. Is that too much to ask? Or share this link with someone so I can get double the traffic today. Is that too hard to do? Or maybe you can click here and show me your love in another way.

Seriously, thank you for reading. It still baffles me that anyone reads this blog at all, but to know that so many people do read makes me happy almost everyday. I thank each and every one of you. You are all great. (Except Penelope. She is a dried up twat face who can eat my pud.)

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

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Don't Cry Over Spilt Milk. Or Cosmo.

Seeing how many trays I have held over the years, it's amazing that I have not spilled more often than I have. I am knocking on wood right now, because I do not want to jinx myself and then the next time I go to work end up dropping a hummus platter into the lap of someone. Last night though I had a couple of minor spills. One was my fault but the other was absolutely unequivocally not my fault in the slightest tiniest teeniest bit.

The club was crowded as hell last night. Like people crammed in tighter than the 6 train at rush hour. Tighter than sardines in a can. Tighter than Joan River's face. (Okay maybe not that tight...). It takes a serious case of balance and gymnastics to get to the tables in the dark while a show is happening all the while carrying a tray of martinis. There is some Mary Lou Retton shit going on up in there. I went over to Table 32 and began to place the Cosmopearitan (yummy, by the way) in front of the single lady. It was filled to the brim and a tiny bit of the nectar dripped over the edge of the glass spilling onto her hand and pants leg. It may have been about a teaspoon. The lady acted like I had just dumped a tsunami in her lap. I whispered "I'm sorry" to her and put the drink down. She grabbed a bev nap from the table and started wiping her whole entire body with it. She seemed to think that the whole drink had spilled on her. Frantically, she sopped up vodka and pear liqueur that wasn't even there. "Are you alright?" I asked. She glared at me seething with inner rage and hissed, "I'm wet!" The way she said it was as if she meant to say "I was just stabbed in the heart with an ice pick and my lung has also been punctured. It is horrible. This is the most awful thing I have ever been a part of." But she just said "I'm wet." I was certain that she wasn't really that wet. Damp, maybe. Wet? No. She got over it.

Thirty minutes later as I was clearing tables, my tray was now loaded with three half full bottles of Pelligrino and a couple of coffee creamers that still had milk in them. I was standing next to the bus tub to deposit them but waiting for people to get the hell out of the way. Someone bumped into me causing the bottles to fall over spilling water on my shirt and then knocking the creamers full of milk onto the floor. The man who ran into me had this brilliant question for me: Am I in the way? Well, let's see, sir. You are standing between the computer, the trash can, the service station and the bus tub so yes. You are in the way. Can't he go stand where the other customers are? Go outside? Go to his table? Go home? He informed me that he just wanted to find a place that he would not be in the way, so he moved two whole feet and proceeded to stand in the only means of entrance to the room. Just stood there. Yeah, that's better, sir.

I took a cue from the lady at Table 32 and grabbed a bev nap and dried myself off. I was way wetter than she was, but mine was only water. At least hers was Cosmopeariton. She got to smell like a cocktail while I just smelled like sparkling water, hummus and bitterness.


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