Sunday, March 13, 2011
Those who jack tables deserve what they get.
As she came in, I was greeting another table, and I went to get their drinks to get the newly completed five-top time with the menus. But when I came back out of the kitchen, Native was at the table doing her eager beaver suck-up routine and taking their order! At first I thought that Chicken Little had sent her to the table -- CL was on the edge of panic all night and was micro-managing shit, she'd already sent two other people to two of my tables thinking I needed help. But when I asked if she'd sent Native to the table, she said no.
I watched Native for a minute; she took ages to take their order, frantically nodding with her weird beehive hair-do flopping, laughing way too loudly, and generally being obnoxious. When she came back in to the kitchen, I asked if she was transferring the table to me.
"What?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"They were there before cut and I'd been waiting on them for twenty minutes, so I didn't know if CL had sent you to take their order for me or what," I bluffed.
She started stammering and finally said, "Oh, I guess I can, yeah. Someone told me to take it because they hadn't been waited on."
When they all had full drinks in front of them? Riiiiiight. But I just smiled sweetly and said, "Oh, it's no big deal. You've already got their order, so you keep them. I'll go ahead and transfer their drinks to you!"
I could have insisted on taking them, but really I just wanted to make her feel like an asshole. I also could have told her that those particular bitches come in every Friday, drink fucktons of soda, and share two appetizers. I could have told her that Basset Woman would glare balefully at her the entire time, until she came to the table, when she'd suddenly become invisible. I could have told her they'd want separate checks, and that they camp out for ages. I could have told her they consistently tip 5% on a bill of about $20.
But I didn't.