So this would be a good time to write up that story, huh? I've found it's difficult to write my blog posts when I'm in a good mood -- because the good moods are never caused by work!
So last night was kind of a shitty night anyway. People were just impatient. Not too long after first cuts, I had a table of an elderly couple and their son on the patio. I thought they'd be a great table, they were smiling and happy and ordered big expensive drinks.
I delivered their food and asked if they needed anything else, having already brought them extra napkins and sauces in anticipation. They seemed thrilled with their food and said it was great, so I thought I could nip into the bathroom because my bladder was about to rupture.
Well, I came out a couple minutes later and Porn Star stopped me. "Your dude on the patio threw his ribs at me and said they were burnt, the kitchen's making him new ones."
"Shit. Okay, does he need new sides?"
"No, he kept his sides."
I went into the kitchen and was greeted with a glare from Lapdog. Apparently burnt ribs are my fault, rather than the cooks'. He asked if the guy still had his sides, and I said yes, and hustled out to the patio with new ribs.
Well, surprise surprise, the guy didn't actually have his sides. I apologized for the mis-communication and said I'd be right back. Naturally, I got to the kitchen and they didn't have any fucking fries cooked. They hadn't even dropped them. So I got his cole slaw, and I ran back out to the patio. I figured he'd be annoyed, but holy shit.
I placed the cole slaw on the table. "They're just cooking fresh fries for you, sir, they'll be ready s--"
"WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T THEY BE READY NOW!" he sprayed spit all over me as he yelled.
I was flabbergasted. "They're making fresh ones, I thought you'd prefer that."
I can't really articulate what all he said next. It was a blur of half-finished sentences about half-cooked fries, burnt ribs, bullshit, and I don't even know what else. At one point he scooted his chair back and started to stand up, making fists, like he was going to get in my face! He culminated the whole rant by yelling "Take the damn ribs!" and shoving the plate into my stomach so hard I really thought I'd have a bruise. Then he threw a ramekin of barbecue sauce onto the plate, splashing me with it. I was literally stunned motionless and speechless. Then he ripped the plate out of my hands, yelling "Put my goddamn ribs down!"
I didn't say another word. I just stomped away, ripping open the patio door, saying probably loud enough for them to hear, "I do NOT get paid enough for this!" By the time I reached the manager's office, I was in tears.
"Lapdog, you have to go talk to this angry old asshole on the patio."
He blinked at me.
"He's swearing at me, throwing things at me, spitting on me -- I'm not fucking dealing with him anymore."
Lapdog heaved a huge sigh and got up. I explained what happened as we went to the front of the house. As he went out to the table, I could see the old man's wife had gotten up and was rubbing his back, soothing him.
Lapdog came back several minutes later, bitching and moaning about having to comp so much food -- he took forty dollars off of their bill! What the fuck ever! But at that point I decided I wasn't going to let them know he'd upset me, so I delivered their bill professionally -- not making eye contact with the old asshole -- and when they were ready I cashed them out. I guess the old lady felt bad because she left me ten bucks, which is ten bucks more than I was expecting!
I can let a lot of things roll right off my back; I have a pretty thick skin. But that old bastard just crossed the line. Swearing doesn't offend me on its own, but combined with spitting, throwing things, jamming plates into my abdomen, and acting as if you're going to physically confront me? Fuck that. Fuck it hard. And fuck Lapdog too for bowing and scraping to someone who talked to his employee that way!