That fact might make me, myself, an asshole. I'm okay with that.
Like most restaurants, we have a problem with self-seaters. A surprising number of people think that just because there are tables next to the bar, they can plop themselves wherever they want, no matter who is ahead of them. A lot of people immediately pick whatever table they want if the host isn't directly in front of them the instant they step in the door. Either way, they're entitled jackasses, so I go out of my way for them.
I approach them with my biggest dumb-blonde smile. "Hi! Good to see you! How ARE you!?" I wait for them to mumble some response, and then instead of answering, I look at their table with a big overdone frown. "Oh my gosh! I don't know WHY the hostess sat you without menus! How are you supposed to know what you want? I am SO SORRY! I'm going to have to go have a SERIOUS talk with her! This is unacceptable, I'm so sorry!"
I love seeing the chagrin on their faces grow as I go through this speech, and when they admit they sat themselves they're usually appropriately chastened. That's when I drop the dumb blonde act and say just say "ohhhhhh, no, this isn't a seat-yourself restaurant. But I'll be right back with your menus." And it's not like they can complain - what are they going to say? "That waitress thought the hostess wasn't doing her job and apologized to us for it?" Or maybe "we sat ourselves and she went to get us menus"?
Seriously, if you work in a restaurant and you have this problem, try it. It's hilarious and satisfying.
I've been doing that for years, but recently I discovered another way to make entitled jerkwads feel like ... well, jerkwads. My restaurant has decided to do one of those stupid fucking promotions where if your server doesn't recommend a specific drink, you get it free. The ad for this takes up an entire side of one of the table toppers, so everybody notices it. I've yet to forget to suggest this damned drink - watch me forget it tomorrow - but I can always tell the ones who think they're going to trick me in to forgetting by cutting me off mid-sentence, or by hiding that table topper. It goes something like this;
"Hi, how are you today? Can I get you a -"
"Water."
"Okay! We are featuring (drink in question), so let me know if you want to try one later!"
*looking sulkily across the table at each other* "Okay."
But the really fun ones are the people who, after I suggest the drink in question, heave a big sigh. "If you hadn't said that, we would get a free drink!" They say, waving the table topper at me.
"I know, that's why I suggested it!" I say right back with a laugh. "I like my job, I don't want to lose it!"
"What? You could get fired for that?"
"If it happens more than once, yep!" I tell them super-cheerfully. "What would you like to drink?"
The look of shock on their faces is almost universal when they realize that their ploy to save a few bucks could actually cause another human being to be unemployed. And again, how can they complain? What are they going to say? "Our waitress did her job and said she did it because she likes her job?" "Our waitress told us she could lose her job for not doing what she's supposed to, but she did what she was supposed to?"
(And yes, people have actually been fired over forgetting to suggest things during one of these promotions. Not for the first time they forgot, but for multiples.)
I know these are very little things, but I like to think that my underhanded, polite shaming will stick with them. It's my good deed, it's my pay-it-forward ... okay, mostly it's my personal amusement.
Showing posts with label entitlement junkies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label entitlement junkies. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Sunday, March 22, 2015
No, I do not agree, and fuck you very much.
I can't even imagine the hate comments I'm going to get over this post, because somebody is bound to see it as me criticizing America or disrespecting troops or something else that I am clearly not doing. Whatever. I feel better anyway!
One of my family members posted this on Facebook:
I'll be honest, it hurt my feelings. I'm still pretty upset at the relative who posted it, and the one who "liked" it. I thought about posting a long rant on Facebook in response, but let's be honest - nobody would read it. And maybe nobody will read it here, but I'm going to go ahead anyway.
Dear Meme Creator,
I really hate this graphic you've made. It's sarcastic, it's rude, it's denigrating, it's belittling. It's completely hateful, and I'd truly like to know why.
What did anyone in a "minimum skills" job ever do to you? There's such vitriol here, it's so scathing and nasty that it feels personal, and I don't understand. Did an entire McDonald's staff line up to give you wedgies? Did all the hot waiters reject you? Did the cute girl at The Gap (Gap is still a thing, right?) laugh at your hair? Seriously, what did an entire huge group of people do to deserve such scorn?
Why do you assume that I have only "minimum skills" because of my job? You don't know me. You don't know what I'm good at or bad at - you only know how I chose to make my money. I'm a hell of a writer when I put my mind to it, but I don't want to make a career out of it. I'm mere credits away from a history degree, but again, it's a passion, not something I want to make a career. Mistress J used to be a phlebotomist. Lap Dog cooked for a world-famous chef. One of our best servers was a former sheriff's deputy. We all have talents - you not seeing them does not negate them.
And even if someone does have only basic skills - why should that person suffer and be poor? Someone has to bring you iced tea, flip your burgers, give you change at the gas station, restock shelves, take your bank deposits, and do a myriad of other things that keep the world running. Why do you feel those people aren't entitled to a comfortable life? So "Sally McBurgerFlipper" didn't finish high school or "Baconator" didn't have a talent for sports or "Slightly Cranky Waitress" never found a career she could sink her teeth in to. Should we starve to death? Then who will make your venti no foam skim sugar free vegan iced latte?
And the crux of this post .... Why use the military to drive home these points? My grandfather struggled to provide for his family of seven on a military salary - did you see something like that too, and did it embitter you toward the military? I could understand that. However ... nowhere in this graphic did you suggest that military members be paid more. Nowhere did you say it's a travesty that they risk their lives and sacrifice for such low pay. Nowhere did you incite people to push for military raises. Instead, you used the idea of military members' sacrifices as a cheap ploy to vent your views about us "lesser" humans.
And you know what? In doing so, you didn't even do your homework. You see, military pay rates are available online for the world to see. I checked, because once I suppressed my personal feelings about your statements, I was horrified at the idea that I, a mere waitress as a low-end restaurant, might be making more than someone who serves the in the U.S. Military. That really would be a travesty.
And initially, I thought you were right. If you look at the 2014 base pay rates, an Army E1 did indeed make $18k a year. An E5 with 8 years did make $35k. I couldn't believe what I was reading. And then I looked at it again and remembered something that you either didn't know or chose to ignore, so let me educate you: military base pay differs from a civilian's gross pay. All our living expenses come out of our gross pay - but military members get BAH and BAS. Those are allowances for housing and food. Said allowances are tax free. So, let's run some numbers.
Let's pretend that there's a hypothetical world where the national minimum wage was $15/hour. "Johnny Burger Flipper" would indeed make $31,200 a year. Using 2015 tax brackets, that means Johnny would, after taxes, take home $26,982 a year or $2,248 a month.
Now let's look at an enlisted E1's pay - and we'll assume that in this hypothetical world, economics aren't insanely complicated and so a minimum wage increase would have no impact on anybody else's wages.
So, that in mind .... There's the $18,278 in base pay, which is taxed, and so take home pay on that is $15,998 a year or $1333 a month.
Then there's BAS, which is $323.87 a month, tax free, so that's $1656.87 a month.
BAH is more complicated, because it's based on location and dependents. Let's use Mississippi, because it's the poorest state according to Google. No dependents. There's a military base in Biloxi, so we'll use a zip code from there to calculate a rate. That gives $897 a month (tax free), so total monthly pay is $2553.87.
That means this hypothetical E1's yearly, after-tax pay is $30,646.
An E1 is basic, entry-level ... the Army equivalent of "minimum skills." So the gap between unskilled "Johnny" and unskilled E1 is $3664 after taxes. Not huge. But "Johnny" in this scenario is unlikely to get a raise the following year, or if he did it would probably be a quarter or less ($34 a month). 2014's E1 becomes an E2 in 2015 and gets a pay bump of 172.55 a month after taxes.
(For the sake of completeness: using the same references, the E5 mentioned in the meme would have a take home pay of $44,861 yearly or $3738 a month.)
The point of me running all these numbers is NOT that I think military members are adequately paid for their time and sacrifice.
The point is that a) I'm a big nerd and I enjoy this sort of thing, so it was actually kind of fun for me and b) your entire scathing, nasty meme is shored up by incomplete, and thus misleading, information.
Your attempt to use military pay rates to justify keeping other workers in dire economic straights is pathetic and insulting, because you're using the military and American pride as an emotional string - when your language makes it clear that you don't think military should be paid more. You just that "minimum skilled" people should be paid less. And guess what? They are. Drastically so. Even in hypothetical $15-an-hour-minimum-wage land, they would be paid less! So ... that pretty much takes the wind out of the sails of your argument, doesn't it?
Maybe, instead of spreading "info"graphics on the Internet to work out your rage and disgust with those of us are clearly so far below you .... you should think about what it is in you that makes you look down on the lower class, the working class, who are just trying to survive.
Maybe you should examine your attitude, and figure out why you think someone else deserves to live in constant economic stress and fear just because they're doing a job you think you're too good for.
Maybe you should analyze your life and your own achievements, before branding other people as failures because of how they pay their bills.
Signed,
A Self-Sufficient, Hard-Working "Failure"
One of my family members posted this on Facebook:
I'll be honest, it hurt my feelings. I'm still pretty upset at the relative who posted it, and the one who "liked" it. I thought about posting a long rant on Facebook in response, but let's be honest - nobody would read it. And maybe nobody will read it here, but I'm going to go ahead anyway.
Dear Meme Creator,
I really hate this graphic you've made. It's sarcastic, it's rude, it's denigrating, it's belittling. It's completely hateful, and I'd truly like to know why.
What did anyone in a "minimum skills" job ever do to you? There's such vitriol here, it's so scathing and nasty that it feels personal, and I don't understand. Did an entire McDonald's staff line up to give you wedgies? Did all the hot waiters reject you? Did the cute girl at The Gap (Gap is still a thing, right?) laugh at your hair? Seriously, what did an entire huge group of people do to deserve such scorn?
Why do you assume that I have only "minimum skills" because of my job? You don't know me. You don't know what I'm good at or bad at - you only know how I chose to make my money. I'm a hell of a writer when I put my mind to it, but I don't want to make a career out of it. I'm mere credits away from a history degree, but again, it's a passion, not something I want to make a career. Mistress J used to be a phlebotomist. Lap Dog cooked for a world-famous chef. One of our best servers was a former sheriff's deputy. We all have talents - you not seeing them does not negate them.
And even if someone does have only basic skills - why should that person suffer and be poor? Someone has to bring you iced tea, flip your burgers, give you change at the gas station, restock shelves, take your bank deposits, and do a myriad of other things that keep the world running. Why do you feel those people aren't entitled to a comfortable life? So "Sally McBurgerFlipper" didn't finish high school or "Baconator" didn't have a talent for sports or "Slightly Cranky Waitress" never found a career she could sink her teeth in to. Should we starve to death? Then who will make your venti no foam skim sugar free vegan iced latte?
And the crux of this post .... Why use the military to drive home these points? My grandfather struggled to provide for his family of seven on a military salary - did you see something like that too, and did it embitter you toward the military? I could understand that. However ... nowhere in this graphic did you suggest that military members be paid more. Nowhere did you say it's a travesty that they risk their lives and sacrifice for such low pay. Nowhere did you incite people to push for military raises. Instead, you used the idea of military members' sacrifices as a cheap ploy to vent your views about us "lesser" humans.
And you know what? In doing so, you didn't even do your homework. You see, military pay rates are available online for the world to see. I checked, because once I suppressed my personal feelings about your statements, I was horrified at the idea that I, a mere waitress as a low-end restaurant, might be making more than someone who serves the in the U.S. Military. That really would be a travesty.
And initially, I thought you were right. If you look at the 2014 base pay rates, an Army E1 did indeed make $18k a year. An E5 with 8 years did make $35k. I couldn't believe what I was reading. And then I looked at it again and remembered something that you either didn't know or chose to ignore, so let me educate you: military base pay differs from a civilian's gross pay. All our living expenses come out of our gross pay - but military members get BAH and BAS. Those are allowances for housing and food. Said allowances are tax free. So, let's run some numbers.
Let's pretend that there's a hypothetical world where the national minimum wage was $15/hour. "Johnny Burger Flipper" would indeed make $31,200 a year. Using 2015 tax brackets, that means Johnny would, after taxes, take home $26,982 a year or $2,248 a month.
Now let's look at an enlisted E1's pay - and we'll assume that in this hypothetical world, economics aren't insanely complicated and so a minimum wage increase would have no impact on anybody else's wages.
So, that in mind .... There's the $18,278 in base pay, which is taxed, and so take home pay on that is $15,998 a year or $1333 a month.
Then there's BAS, which is $323.87 a month, tax free, so that's $1656.87 a month.
BAH is more complicated, because it's based on location and dependents. Let's use Mississippi, because it's the poorest state according to Google. No dependents. There's a military base in Biloxi, so we'll use a zip code from there to calculate a rate. That gives $897 a month (tax free), so total monthly pay is $2553.87.
That means this hypothetical E1's yearly, after-tax pay is $30,646.
An E1 is basic, entry-level ... the Army equivalent of "minimum skills." So the gap between unskilled "Johnny" and unskilled E1 is $3664 after taxes. Not huge. But "Johnny" in this scenario is unlikely to get a raise the following year, or if he did it would probably be a quarter or less ($34 a month). 2014's E1 becomes an E2 in 2015 and gets a pay bump of 172.55 a month after taxes.
(For the sake of completeness: using the same references, the E5 mentioned in the meme would have a take home pay of $44,861 yearly or $3738 a month.)
The point of me running all these numbers is NOT that I think military members are adequately paid for their time and sacrifice.
The point is that a) I'm a big nerd and I enjoy this sort of thing, so it was actually kind of fun for me and b) your entire scathing, nasty meme is shored up by incomplete, and thus misleading, information.
Your attempt to use military pay rates to justify keeping other workers in dire economic straights is pathetic and insulting, because you're using the military and American pride as an emotional string - when your language makes it clear that you don't think military should be paid more. You just that "minimum skilled" people should be paid less. And guess what? They are. Drastically so. Even in hypothetical $15-an-hour-minimum-wage land, they would be paid less! So ... that pretty much takes the wind out of the sails of your argument, doesn't it?
Maybe, instead of spreading "info"graphics on the Internet to work out your rage and disgust with those of us are clearly so far below you .... you should think about what it is in you that makes you look down on the lower class, the working class, who are just trying to survive.
Maybe you should examine your attitude, and figure out why you think someone else deserves to live in constant economic stress and fear just because they're doing a job you think you're too good for.
Maybe you should analyze your life and your own achievements, before branding other people as failures because of how they pay their bills.
Signed,
A Self-Sufficient, Hard-Working "Failure"
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Definitions, part two.
in·at·ten·tion
noun \ˌi-nə-ˈten(t)-shən\: failure to carefully think about, listen to, or watch someone or something : lack of attention
Not included in this definition: "server who was set up to look inattentive."
I recognized these bitches when they sat down, but I wasn't sure why. One was a white-trash looking blonde with smeared eye makeup, and then other was a pretty black women with get hair up in a painfully tight looking bun. Getting their drink order required four trips to the bar to confer with the bartender over cheapest options, pitcher vs. glass, etc. They seemed irritated by me trying to get get them the best deal, even though they asked what was cheaper. I don't know what was up with that.
It was shortly before the switch to dinner crew, and we got hit hard. I had seven small tables and an eight top, and during the rush to get them all greeted and get their orders in, I did forget one thing - white trash chick wanted a straw for her beer. I noticed she had one and I immediately apologized and said, "I was going crazy for a minute there, I'm sorry I forgot that!"* She just said it was okay ... but from that point on, they pulled a total passive-aggressive bitch move.
*Important later.
I checked their beer levels and made eye contact with both of them before I started taking an order at the table next to them. I had just begun speaking to my new table when bun chick reached out and grabbed the arm of a passing server; when I chased her down, I was told the woman's glass was dirty. I took her a fresh beer and asked if they wanted to order appetizers or anything; White Trash was picking at her bowl of soup and Bun was playing on her phone. Without making eye contact, they both said no.
I started taking an order at my eight top - and again saw them flag down another server out of the corner of my eye! When I chased him down, I found they'd ordered appetizers.
It went on and on like that for the next hour. No matter how close an eye I kept on them, how many times I checked on them, they would wait until my back was turned and then grab the nearest other server - or go to the bar and bug the bartender! I was getting really fucking fed up with it .. and then Harley rushed in to the kitchen yelling, "Who has table 70? Why do they want to talk to me?"
I tried to explain to her what they'd been doing, but when Harley gets in a rush she'll just take off in the middle of your sentence. So she goes and talks to these bitches, who tell her I was inattentive and rude and that I told them I was crazy. When she finally listened to me, Harley seemed to believe they were just trying to get something free - but demanded "why would you tell your tables you're crazy?!" and was all upset with me about that. She also reduced their $24 bill - already a fucking steal - to seven goddamn dollars and made me go deliver it.
She told me to apologize to them, and that I could absolutely not do with sincerity. So I told them "I'm sorry you weren't happy today" and that I'd be their cashier, and I took their last plates to the kitchen. I had no even finished dropping off those plates at dish with Mr. Rumple Minze came in to the kitchen .... with their ticket. So I took it, cashed them out, took their gift card back to them, and went to get a drink refill ... and before I'd even finished pouring that Pepsi, they had asked Wife for something. It was fucking ridiculous.
Naturally, they left me a two cent tip, but they can go fuck themselves. I wrote down a description of them and stuck it in my book, and if I ever see them again I'll refuse to wait on them.
Here's the real kicker, though, and this relates back to my last "definitions" entry: Both these tables bitched to the manager and had already gotten something free for it. A week later, I discovered that they really went the extra mile to get more free shit, or to just plain fuck me: they both did their corporate surveys and wrote paragraphs about how awful I was. So guess who got a fucking writeup and a lecture from Lapdog? Yeah.
I just don't understand these people. Who do they lie? Do they really not think they're hurting anyone, do they not realize they could be jeopardizing my job? If I had fucked up, then sure - rake me across the coals. In fact, the day I was so "inattentive" to those two bitches, there was another table that I truly was inattentive to - they were tucked in a corner and my eight top was being demanding, and I just plain fucked up and forgot about them a couple of times. If they had complained, I would not protest it in the least.
But these other people, who just want something free? They can go die in a hole.
Definitions, part one.
Well, I left the top post as something positive for as long as could. But it's time to resume my regular scheduled crankiness.
Notice how, nowhere in there, does it say "not giving your entitled ass free dessert because you thought you should have it"?
At first, it seemed like an ordinary afternoon table: two couples in their sixties, meeting for lunch. Because I'm not feeling very creative today, we'll call couple #1 Ed and Edna and couple #2 George and Georgina. They ordered their waters with lemon and their lunch specials, reminded me to give them their precious senior discount and split their tickets, and began talking about their grandchildren or whatever.
When I went to plate up their lunch, I discovered that we had just run out of clam chowder, which Edna had ordered. I apologized to her and she chose something else, and everything seemed fine. Then finished their lunch, declined desserts, and I brought them their tickets.
As I finished my usual ticket drop spiel, Georgina suddenly piped up. "I think she gets free dessert, doesn't she?" She pointed at Edna, who just looked at her.
Thinking maybe it was Edna's birthday, I laughed and said, "Oh? Why's that?"
"Well!" Georgina huffed. "Because you were out of the soup she wanted! And it says it right there on your specials board! It still says it! You should erase it!"
This just irritated me. Had Edna asked, I probably would have gone to Uncle Fester and relayed the request. But Edna was not contributing to this at all, and in fact was looking at Georgina like she was crazy. So I apologized again, gently explained that sometimes we run out of things and we'll have more ready soon so we wouldn't be changing the board. Georgina seemed mollified. Edna still didn't seem interested.
Ed and George both gave me credit cards, which I scanned and returned. At that point, Ed pointed at a little blurb on the table tent and said "we get free dessert, right?"
Ugh. Fucking corporate and their genius ideas. In this case, it was printing "FREE DESSERT! If we don't offer a Sam Adams!" on one of the ubiquitous table decorations. Figuring Ed's eyesight might just be not so good, I said politely, "Oh, that's if I don't offer a Sam Adams like I did when I first came to the table." Ed just said "oh" and thanked me when I handed him his black book.
At that point, these folks were my only table and my bladder was about to revolt. I dashed in to the bathroom and when I came out .... Ed and George were gone, but Edna and Georgina were talking to Uncle Fester, who stomped back in to the kitchen looking pissed and then took them something.
Turns out that the lovely ladies told Uncle Fester that they had a "horrible experience" because I was "incredibly rude" and that I "argued" with them when they said I didn't offer them a Sam Adams. Fester was pretty annoyed at me and told me to never argue with guests, and said he'd given them dessert coupons. I relayed the conversation to him - specifically the complete lack of arguing - and showed him my credit card slips where both Ed and George had tipped me more than 20% and he calmed down.
Sadly, the story doesn't quite end there. To be continued.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Truly insulting
I had used a previously started draft from July when I originally posted this, not realizing it would put it back in the archives. Re-posting so it's in its proper place!)
I had a table today of six. One of them, a woman around twenty, was in military fatigues. They were nice enough, unremarkable ... Until the end. After I had already run their credit card and returned it to the table, the older gentleman (fatigue-wearer's father) waved me down.
I had a table today of six. One of them, a woman around twenty, was in military fatigues. They were nice enough, unremarkable ... Until the end. After I had already run their credit card and returned it to the table, the older gentleman (fatigue-wearer's father) waved me down.
"Do you have a military discount?"
I told him we did, but it would take several minutes to do and I'd need to re-run his credit card. Usually that discourages people, but not this time.
"That's okay. We'll wait!"
Fuck.
So I took the card and got Fester, who first of argued with me and tried to say that you can't so discounts on tickets that were pulled back after being closed. He got even more grumpy when I told him yes you can, you just can't void things. Eventually, be pulled the ticket back and did the discount - for the person in the military, who was not the person who paid - and made the comment "she's not supposed to wearing her uniform in public like that."
So I re-ran the card and returned it to the table, with a copy of their receipt. I continued waiting on my other tables, noticing out of the corner of my eye that the military girl and her parents were all crowded around the receipt and talking to each other in hushed tones. But they didn't stop me as I walked slowly by, so I shrugged it off.
When I next came out of the kitchen, military mom had cornered Fester and was almost yelling. From across the restaurant I heard her say "that is truly insulting!" and then his reply that "a ten percent discount is insulting?"
Apparently she stormed up to him and demanded to know why that ten percent discount didn't apply to everyone at the table - and then told him it was insulting that her daughter only got ten percent off of her personal food "after all she's been through."
("All she's been through," it turned out, was basic training.)
Fester refused to give the rest of them a discount and when he went back to the kitchen he unloaded about how insulting he found it that this family was trying to use their daughter's military service that way. "They're the kind of people who show on Veteran's Day and think having a kid in the military entitles them to free food!"
I wasn't as pissed as ex-Army Fester, but I was still annoyed. My grandfather was a career soldier and he would never have asked for a military discount. My aunt is in the Navy and my cousin is Army, my best friend's brother is Air Force, etc etc - none of the military people I know would have allowed a family member to make a scene that way. Maybe if they were treating the rest of the family to a meal, they might have asked if it applied to everything - but they'd never demand.
I'm okay if that family doesn't come back. They left a bad taste in everyone's mouths.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Truly insulting.
I had a table today of six. One of them, a woman around twenty, was in military fatigues. They were nice enough, unremarkable ... Until the end. After I had already run their credit card and returned it to the table, the older gentleman (fatigue-wearer's father) waved me down.
"Do you have a military discount?"
I told him we did, but it would take several minutes to do and I'd need to re-run his credit card. Usually that discourages people, but not this time.
"That's okay. We'll wait!"
Fuck.
So I took the card and got Fester, who first of argued with me and tried to say that you can't so discounts on tickets that were pulled back after being closed. He got even more grumpy when I told him yes you can, you just can't void things. Eventually, be pulled the ticket back and did the discount - for the person in the military, who was not the person who paid - and made the comment "she's not supposed to wearing her uniform in public like that."
So I re-ran the card and returned it to the table, with a copy of their receipt. I continued waiting on my other tables, noticing out of the corner of my eye that the military girl and her parents were all crowded around the receipt and talking to each other in hushed tones. But they didn't stop me as I walked slowly by, so I shrugged it off.
When I next came out of the kitchen, military mom had cornered Fester and was almost yelling. From across the restaurant I heard her say "that is truly insulting!" and then his reply that "a ten percent discount is insulting?"
Apparently she stormed up to him and demanded to know why that ten percent discount didn't apply to everyone at the table - and then told him it was insulting that her daughter only got ten percent off of her personal food "after all she's been through."
("All she's been through," it turned out, was basic training.)
Fester refused to give the rest of them a discount and when he went back to the kitchen he unloaded about how insulting he found it that this family was trying to use their daughter's military service that way. "They're the kind of people who show on Veteran's Day and think having a kid in the military entitles them to free food!"
I wasn't as pissed as ex-Army Fester, but I was still annoyed. My grandfather was a career soldier and he would never have asked for a military discount. My aunt is in the Navy and my cousin is Army, my best friend's brother is Air Force, etc etc - none of the military people I know would have allowed a family member to make a scene that way. Maybe if they were treating the rest of the family to a meal, they might have asked if it applied to everything - but they'd never demand.
I'm okay if that family doesn't come back. They left a bad taste in everyone's mouths.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Not gonna happen.
I waited on a charming old bat tonight.
“I want a salad before my dinner. Before. I want an iceberg salad. You have iceberg, don't you? If you don't Albertson's is right there!” she stabbed her wrinkly finger out the window at the grocery store in our shopping plaza. At first I started to laugh – then to choke when I realized the bitch was serious. I told her as mildly as possible that we did indeed have iceberg lettuce, and absolutely did not tell her to reel in her liver-spotted claw and go buy her fucking iceberg salad herself, Albertson's is right there.
“I want a salad before my dinner. Before. I want an iceberg salad. You have iceberg, don't you? If you don't Albertson's is right there!” she stabbed her wrinkly finger out the window at the grocery store in our shopping plaza. At first I started to laugh – then to choke when I realized the bitch was serious. I told her as mildly as possible that we did indeed have iceberg lettuce, and absolutely did not tell her to reel in her liver-spotted claw and go buy her fucking iceberg salad herself, Albertson's is right there.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Yes, I should burn in hell.
The kitchen's been over-cooking steaks 99% of the time the last couple of weeks. And 99% of that 99% of the time, it goes like this:
“This is medium, it was supposed to be rare!”
“I'm so sorry, I'll have them cook you a new one right away.” I say in my best chipper waitress voice, whisking the offending plate.
“Thank you.”
But not this time. This time it was …
“This streak is medium, it was supposed to be rare!”
“I'm so sorry, I'll have them cook you a new one right away.” I reached for the plate and began to pick it up.
“What?” The woman grabbed the edges of the plate and slammed it back down on the table. “You're just going to take my whole dinner?” she asked with a sneer.
I blinked at her. “I like to make sure you get fresh new sides in this situation, ma'am. But I'll leave it if you'd like.”
She didn't answer, just glared at me and started stabbing at her potatoes with a knife. She muttered under her breath every time I was at the table for the rest of their meal. Whatever.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
People and their goddamn bread!
(Fell asleep before I posted this last night. Fuck me, I hate double shifts.)
I don't know how people who work at restaurants with complimentary bread handle it. We don't do that, and people already piss me off! We do have garlic breadsticks we serve with our pasta dishes, and people can order them with other things if they'd like. Invariably, when someone asks for a breadstick, I have to clarify first that they aren't free, fuckers. This isn't an Italian restaurant. You're not family when you're here, either.
If they agree to pay the sixty cents (big money), I then have to go to the kitchen, ring it in, and then wait for the cooks to toast it and send it out. Occasionally, during the dinner rush, they'll have some pre-made for a pasta dish that isn't ready, so we can use that. More often, though, I go back out to my section with a soda refill or napkins or more ranch or more ice or a third extra plate or extra croutons or drained cole slaw or whatever the fuck people want, and Mr. Bread Stick Orderer will stop me, demanding to know where the bread stick is he ordered one minute ago. When I politely explain it's being toasted, half the people understand and half get a snitty fucking attitude with me.
Once again: Not an Italian restaurant. We don't keep an oven full of these things ready at all times because guess what? We have five items out of our 100 item menu that come with a bread stick. How many do you think we really go through? Oh, but wait, you're special so let me just go change the way the restaurant works just for you.
I don't know how people who work at restaurants with complimentary bread handle it. We don't do that, and people already piss me off! We do have garlic breadsticks we serve with our pasta dishes, and people can order them with other things if they'd like. Invariably, when someone asks for a breadstick, I have to clarify first that they aren't free, fuckers. This isn't an Italian restaurant. You're not family when you're here, either.
If they agree to pay the sixty cents (big money), I then have to go to the kitchen, ring it in, and then wait for the cooks to toast it and send it out. Occasionally, during the dinner rush, they'll have some pre-made for a pasta dish that isn't ready, so we can use that. More often, though, I go back out to my section with a soda refill or napkins or more ranch or more ice or a third extra plate or extra croutons or drained cole slaw or whatever the fuck people want, and Mr. Bread Stick Orderer will stop me, demanding to know where the bread stick is he ordered one minute ago. When I politely explain it's being toasted, half the people understand and half get a snitty fucking attitude with me.
Once again: Not an Italian restaurant. We don't keep an oven full of these things ready at all times because guess what? We have five items out of our 100 item menu that come with a bread stick. How many do you think we really go through? Oh, but wait, you're special so let me just go change the way the restaurant works just for you.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Oh, you're in a hurry, are you?
My first table tonight was three younger people. Perfectly nice, if a lite abrupt. They chowed down and I gave them their ticket, informing them that I'd be their cashier. Then while they were fumbling with their wallets I stepped over to the table next to them to ask a question. Seconds later the first three filed by me, and one of them had a receipt and cash in his hand.
“Have a good night,” he said pleasantly as he walked by.
“Thank you! But actually you pay me.”
He looked down at the money in his hand and then at me. “But we're in a hurry.”
I don't remember what I said, but he didn't ask for a manager so it couldn't have been what I was thinking: “Oh, you're in a hurry? Well, then, why don't you just go right to the host stand and try to pay them with your hundred dollar bill. Maybe a cash register will magically appear just for you!” Freaking idiots.
“Have a good night,” he said pleasantly as he walked by.
“Thank you! But actually you pay me.”
He looked down at the money in his hand and then at me. “But we're in a hurry.”
I don't remember what I said, but he didn't ask for a manager so it couldn't have been what I was thinking: “Oh, you're in a hurry? Well, then, why don't you just go right to the host stand and try to pay them with your hundred dollar bill. Maybe a cash register will magically appear just for you!” Freaking idiots.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Control is key.
I've been lucky lately, and haven't had any truly horrendous children to contend with. I'm sure now that I've said that, my next shift will be nothing but screaming, puking monsters. Dammit.
Another server's table last night was a woman in Army fatigues, her three year old daughter, and grandma. They started out in a booth inside, but moved outside when the kid started screaming. I thought that was considerate of them – at that point nobody else was sitting on the patio. Of course, once you get one person out there, the patio stops being invisible and suddenly everyone wants to be there.
So it was about half an hour later that I approached the patio door with my arms completely full. It was one of those heavy loads that I knew I would be fine getting to the table, but if I got delayed for long it would start to hurt. But we were so slow, and there were no big tables in the way, so I figured I'd be fine. I'd forgotten the screamer on the patio.
Sure enough, I approached the patio door and the kid was sprawled on the ground just outside it, whimpering as if being tortured. Normally I'd just knock the door open with my hip and be on my way, but instead I had to stop and stand there. The table next to the door thought I needed help getting it open, and a woman in blue was getting up to help me.
“Oh, I'm okay. There just a little girl having a fit outside the door.” I said it in my most sympathetic tone of voice, not even showing my true irritation.
“She's been having a fit since they got here!” The woman watched as Army-mom berated her child, still blocking the doorway. Then she began re-arranging items on the patio. At first I couldn't figure out what she was doing. Then I figured out she was blocking it so her kid couldn't leave. There's a gap in the railing right where the door opens, I assume for fire safety purposes. So instead of, you know, controlling her child, Army mom began moving our large flowerpot to block the entrance. Then she moved our server cart.
That's what really pissed me off. That cart has condiments, napkins, water pitchers, etc. on it, and she just rolled it so it was halfway off the patio, wedged in the rocks, almost everything on it knocked over and in a mess. Oh, and it was partially blocking the door now too! So she could ignore her kid.
At that point the lady in blue let out a noise of disgust and started to ease the door open, hoping the woman would take a hint and move her goddamn kid. Eventually she did, and I gratefully dropped off the food in my arms before it splattered all over the floor. I'd been standing for at least a minute, probably almost two, while this woman let her child scream and re-arranged restaurant furniture.
Another server's table last night was a woman in Army fatigues, her three year old daughter, and grandma. They started out in a booth inside, but moved outside when the kid started screaming. I thought that was considerate of them – at that point nobody else was sitting on the patio. Of course, once you get one person out there, the patio stops being invisible and suddenly everyone wants to be there.
So it was about half an hour later that I approached the patio door with my arms completely full. It was one of those heavy loads that I knew I would be fine getting to the table, but if I got delayed for long it would start to hurt. But we were so slow, and there were no big tables in the way, so I figured I'd be fine. I'd forgotten the screamer on the patio.Sure enough, I approached the patio door and the kid was sprawled on the ground just outside it, whimpering as if being tortured. Normally I'd just knock the door open with my hip and be on my way, but instead I had to stop and stand there. The table next to the door thought I needed help getting it open, and a woman in blue was getting up to help me.
“Oh, I'm okay. There just a little girl having a fit outside the door.” I said it in my most sympathetic tone of voice, not even showing my true irritation.
“She's been having a fit since they got here!” The woman watched as Army-mom berated her child, still blocking the doorway. Then she began re-arranging items on the patio. At first I couldn't figure out what she was doing. Then I figured out she was blocking it so her kid couldn't leave. There's a gap in the railing right where the door opens, I assume for fire safety purposes. So instead of, you know, controlling her child, Army mom began moving our large flowerpot to block the entrance. Then she moved our server cart.
That's what really pissed me off. That cart has condiments, napkins, water pitchers, etc. on it, and she just rolled it so it was halfway off the patio, wedged in the rocks, almost everything on it knocked over and in a mess. Oh, and it was partially blocking the door now too! So she could ignore her kid.
At that point the lady in blue let out a noise of disgust and started to ease the door open, hoping the woman would take a hint and move her goddamn kid. Eventually she did, and I gratefully dropped off the food in my arms before it splattered all over the floor. I'd been standing for at least a minute, probably almost two, while this woman let her child scream and re-arranged restaurant furniture.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Look, the bitch is back!
Last entry's stick-up-the-ass bitch was back tonight, thankfully not in my section. But, because I'm a team player – and because if the managers are prepared for whining bastards like that they're less likely to blow up when the inevitable complaint comes – as soon as I spotted her, I went to CL.
“Remember the lady I had last night, who I forgot her appetizer and then she complained about everything else and was freaking out?”
“Uh-huh.” CL didn't seem to really be paying attention.
“Well, she's in seat one at table 12. Just wanted to let you know because I'm sure she'll find something else to freak about.”
At that CL's head swiveled around and she started paying attention. She even thanked me.
And boy, was I right. I later heard Tiffany in a high state of stress, giving CL the laundry list of things the woman was complaining about. CL was very calm about it, but the way CL had been acting all night, I bet if I hadn't warned her it would've been a totally different scene.
Yeah, I'm cool like that.
“Remember the lady I had last night, who I forgot her appetizer and then she complained about everything else and was freaking out?”
“Uh-huh.” CL didn't seem to really be paying attention.
“Well, she's in seat one at table 12. Just wanted to let you know because I'm sure she'll find something else to freak about.”
At that CL's head swiveled around and she started paying attention. She even thanked me.
And boy, was I right. I later heard Tiffany in a high state of stress, giving CL the laundry list of things the woman was complaining about. CL was very calm about it, but the way CL had been acting all night, I bet if I hadn't warned her it would've been a totally different scene.
Yeah, I'm cool like that.
Monday, June 13, 2011
One nutty bitch spoils the bunch.
My schedule's been screwed up lately (thank you LAPDOG), so I worked a Wednesday this week. I. Fucking. Hate. Wednesdays. The shift always starts out with some kind of fucked up chaos, no matter what. Today's wasn't anything specific, and by six I had tables only in my own section again. And honestly they were treating me fairly well, $10 and $12 tips for the most part.
But of course, one person always has to be different.
My last table of the night was a woman who looked like she had a stick up her ass, and her son. They ordered boneless wings as an appetizer. The kid ordered a rack of ribs with extra fries instead of cole slaw, and the mother ordered a chicken tender and rib basket with ranch instead of honey mustard.
Unfortunately, they were one of three tables I was sat at one time, which is how I ended up making a mistake. The people next to them also had an appetizer, and I got my brain wires crossed and thought I'd rung in the uptight bitch's appetizer.
I saw the Bug taking their food to the table, saw the woman give her an earful, and then Bug walked back to the kitchen. I met her halfway and asked what was wrong.
“She didn't get her appetizer before her meal, she said he did not get double fries, and she says this,” Bug shook the basket at me, “isn't enough.”
“Oh, fuck.” I rushed out to the table. “Ma'am, I'm so sorry I forgot to ring in your appetizer, that was entirely my fault. I'm going to get the manager involved to fix the rest, right away. Do you still want the boneless wings?”
“Well of course.” she snarled. I wanted to punch her. I fucking apologized, alright? It's not the end of the world. Especially since the kid did have his double fries, and she got the standard meal portion. “And don't you have some silverware!”
I stomped to the host stand for two silverware, wondering why the hell the hosts were seating people without the stuff, then went in search of Lapdog. I started by telling him I'd forgotten the appetizer and had already apologized, and apparently that made him go deaf with rage because he just couldn't understand what I was saying about the rest of it.
Once I finally explained to him that the woman was complaining about her son's portion of fries, and her overall portion of food, he asked if I was sure she'd ordered the smaller meal. I told him – twice – that I'd repeated the order to her, and he finally started talking to the cooks and expo, so I thought the situation would be resolved fairly quickly.
As I was delivering drinks to another table, Lapdog passed me with the woman's food – which he'd doubled the portion of despite it being normal to begin with – and immediately came back looking even more pissed. I rushed back to the kitchen to find him scooping fries out of the basket and hollering. I hadn't mentioned that she was supposed to have ranch instead of honey mustard, because stupid me, I was dealing with my other tables and maybe thought that might be info the expo would've given him while they were discussing the order. So now the bitch was flipping out because some vile, disgusting, terrible honey mustard touched her plate, and Lapdog was even more pissed at me. I told him the information was on the original ticket and he started snarling about how he didn't have it, nobody uses the special order tickets in situations like this, he's tired of putting out fires, yada yada yada.
Then Chicken Little chose to come out of the office for the first time all night, and she started flipping her lid! She was pacing up and down the kitchen, yelling “I just don't get it! Why are we having these kinds of problems with ten servers on! Maybe we need to have 15! I'll do it! I'll tell my boss my staff can't do their jobs! Maybe then we'll get things done!”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and waited until she had thundered out of the kitchen before saying loudly enough for Lapdog to hear, “It doesn't matter how many servers we have on, people are still going to forget things sometimes.”
Thank god they cut the floor, and I was first off, because I was so fucking frazzled and irritated I don't think I could've handled anything else.
But of course, one person always has to be different.
My last table of the night was a woman who looked like she had a stick up her ass, and her son. They ordered boneless wings as an appetizer. The kid ordered a rack of ribs with extra fries instead of cole slaw, and the mother ordered a chicken tender and rib basket with ranch instead of honey mustard.
Unfortunately, they were one of three tables I was sat at one time, which is how I ended up making a mistake. The people next to them also had an appetizer, and I got my brain wires crossed and thought I'd rung in the uptight bitch's appetizer.
I saw the Bug taking their food to the table, saw the woman give her an earful, and then Bug walked back to the kitchen. I met her halfway and asked what was wrong.
“She didn't get her appetizer before her meal, she said he did not get double fries, and she says this,” Bug shook the basket at me, “isn't enough.”
“Oh, fuck.” I rushed out to the table. “Ma'am, I'm so sorry I forgot to ring in your appetizer, that was entirely my fault. I'm going to get the manager involved to fix the rest, right away. Do you still want the boneless wings?”
“Well of course.” she snarled. I wanted to punch her. I fucking apologized, alright? It's not the end of the world. Especially since the kid did have his double fries, and she got the standard meal portion. “And don't you have some silverware!”
I stomped to the host stand for two silverware, wondering why the hell the hosts were seating people without the stuff, then went in search of Lapdog. I started by telling him I'd forgotten the appetizer and had already apologized, and apparently that made him go deaf with rage because he just couldn't understand what I was saying about the rest of it.
Once I finally explained to him that the woman was complaining about her son's portion of fries, and her overall portion of food, he asked if I was sure she'd ordered the smaller meal. I told him – twice – that I'd repeated the order to her, and he finally started talking to the cooks and expo, so I thought the situation would be resolved fairly quickly.
As I was delivering drinks to another table, Lapdog passed me with the woman's food – which he'd doubled the portion of despite it being normal to begin with – and immediately came back looking even more pissed. I rushed back to the kitchen to find him scooping fries out of the basket and hollering. I hadn't mentioned that she was supposed to have ranch instead of honey mustard, because stupid me, I was dealing with my other tables and maybe thought that might be info the expo would've given him while they were discussing the order. So now the bitch was flipping out because some vile, disgusting, terrible honey mustard touched her plate, and Lapdog was even more pissed at me. I told him the information was on the original ticket and he started snarling about how he didn't have it, nobody uses the special order tickets in situations like this, he's tired of putting out fires, yada yada yada.
Then Chicken Little chose to come out of the office for the first time all night, and she started flipping her lid! She was pacing up and down the kitchen, yelling “I just don't get it! Why are we having these kinds of problems with ten servers on! Maybe we need to have 15! I'll do it! I'll tell my boss my staff can't do their jobs! Maybe then we'll get things done!”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and waited until she had thundered out of the kitchen before saying loudly enough for Lapdog to hear, “It doesn't matter how many servers we have on, people are still going to forget things sometimes.”
Thank god they cut the floor, and I was first off, because I was so fucking frazzled and irritated I don't think I could've handled anything else.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Oh look, it's a small messy human.
When babies like that look at me, or grab my apron, or basically do something that demands attention, I'll give it. Otherwise, I treat them like a grabby piece of furniture, carefully setting things out of their reach and being sure not to hold things over their squishy little heads. Mom and dad got perfect service, quick and efficient and friendly. They said their food was delicious. And yet they left me a big fat nothing, and I suspect it's because I didn't fawn over their youngest crotchspawn. I did say she had adorable little shoes, isn't that enough?
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Been a while since I've heard that one.
One of our less offensive FNGs, Cathy, came up to me tonight looking confused. “Do we have cheesecake bites two for $1.50?”
I frowned. “No, they're a dollar each.”
“That's what I thought, but this guy says we do. I told him no.”
I shook my head. “No, if one is a dollar then two is two dollars. He's a liar.”
She agreed with me and went about her business. The guy did order one, and they are small even for a dollar – I could fit the whole thing in my mouth at once. Wow, that didn't sound very good, did it? A few minutes later she came and told me that he was still bitching about it, that he'd been there for lunch and he could show her the receipt.
“I told him I could get the manager,” she said, “but he just kept saying he had his receipt and he could show me.” We agreed that probably meant he was just trying to bully her into it; she didn't do it. If we did it, there'd be a “2 cheesecake bite” button that rang up for $1.50. Of course it's possible that some jackass working the lunch shift did it for him, but it's more likely that he was just a liar. I'm not sure if Cathy ever got the manager or not, but when the table left she came into the kitchen disgusted.
“That guy just handed me a dollar and said “just so you know, the customer is always right.””
In unison, we said “FUCK THAT.”
I frowned. “No, they're a dollar each.”
“That's what I thought, but this guy says we do. I told him no.”
I shook my head. “No, if one is a dollar then two is two dollars. He's a liar.”
She agreed with me and went about her business. The guy did order one, and they are small even for a dollar – I could fit the whole thing in my mouth at once. Wow, that didn't sound very good, did it? A few minutes later she came and told me that he was still bitching about it, that he'd been there for lunch and he could show her the receipt.
“I told him I could get the manager,” she said, “but he just kept saying he had his receipt and he could show me.” We agreed that probably meant he was just trying to bully her into it; she didn't do it. If we did it, there'd be a “2 cheesecake bite” button that rang up for $1.50. Of course it's possible that some jackass working the lunch shift did it for him, but it's more likely that he was just a liar. I'm not sure if Cathy ever got the manager or not, but when the table left she came into the kitchen disgusted.
“That guy just handed me a dollar and said “just so you know, the customer is always right.””
In unison, we said “FUCK THAT.”
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Stubborn.
Five people came through the restaurant door and started into the bar area. The woman in the lead was pointing at a booth in the corner of the area. Just because their attitude annoyed me, I stepped in front of them.
“Hello! How are you tonight?” I stepped up to foot of the stairs before they reached them and casually put one hand on my hip, which meant they couldn't get by me without encroaching on my personal space.
“Good.” Someone answered, but none of them made eye contact with me as they continued to crowd forward.
“How many tonight?” I politely gave an inch or two, mostly because I didn't want anyone stumbling off the stairs onto me.
“Oh, maybe five, maybe a whole bunch.”
“Okay,” I said. “Should we set up a large table or--”
“We're just going to sit there.” One bossy bitch burst past me and sat down at a high round table (that seats four people comfortably).
I gave up at that point. You would think that when a restaurant employee stands in front of you, physically blocking your path and questioning you, it might be a signal that this is not a seat yourself joint. Oh wait,I forgot you own the place because one of your group is a bar fly.
“Hello! How are you tonight?” I stepped up to foot of the stairs before they reached them and casually put one hand on my hip, which meant they couldn't get by me without encroaching on my personal space.
“Good.” Someone answered, but none of them made eye contact with me as they continued to crowd forward.
“How many tonight?” I politely gave an inch or two, mostly because I didn't want anyone stumbling off the stairs onto me.
“Oh, maybe five, maybe a whole bunch.”
“Okay,” I said. “Should we set up a large table or--”
“We're just going to sit there.” One bossy bitch burst past me and sat down at a high round table (that seats four people comfortably).
I gave up at that point. You would think that when a restaurant employee stands in front of you, physically blocking your path and questioning you, it might be a signal that this is not a seat yourself joint. Oh wait,I forgot you own the place because one of your group is a bar fly.
Monday, March 14, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge - day 10
A song that makes me fall asleep .. well, none really make me fall asleep, but this has been on my sleeping playlists for long enough that it's pretty much part of my bedtime ritual.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I am your waitress. Order from me.
It drives me fucking insane when I see my tables stopping other people to order from them, or walking up to the bar to order their drinks. Now, if I'm totally slammed, that's one thing. If I've just been at the table, there's no reason to flag someone else down to order a salad. Newsflash: You're still going to pay for it. I'll see you eat it, and I'll make sure it's on your ticket.
Going to the bar is another dumbass thing. I had a table last night that had literally just sat down -- in fact, three out of four were seated, the fourth didn't even sit down before going to the bar to order his beer. I was approaching the table as he walked by me to order from the bartender. I felt like grabbing him by his poofy, scraggly mustache and dragging his ass back to the table. Because the bartenders don't need any more sales. They get away with ringing in groups of bar guests under one guest number, and they by default have a lot more drinks; so they're already at the top of the damn upselling game. I need that point for a beer under my name so I don't get fired for something retarded!
And that aside, since I know most customers wouldn't have a clue -- it's just plain fucking rude.
Going to the bar is another dumbass thing. I had a table last night that had literally just sat down -- in fact, three out of four were seated, the fourth didn't even sit down before going to the bar to order his beer. I was approaching the table as he walked by me to order from the bartender. I felt like grabbing him by his poofy, scraggly mustache and dragging his ass back to the table. Because the bartenders don't need any more sales. They get away with ringing in groups of bar guests under one guest number, and they by default have a lot more drinks; so they're already at the top of the damn upselling game. I need that point for a beer under my name so I don't get fired for something retarded!
And that aside, since I know most customers wouldn't have a clue -- it's just plain fucking rude.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Actually, I don't think I will.
A couple of weeks ago I was calling out bingo numbers for late night; we had a pretty decent crowd, but it wasn't as fun as usual because I didn't have a mic and had to just yell the entire time. Still, it was working out okay.
The entire point of this stuff is to keep people there, hopefully ordering drinks and appetizers and desserts. So we take breaks in between rounds, and basically it's a leisurely thing. I try to keep track of when people go out to smoke or whatever and wait for them to get back.
This particular night, Helmet Hair and her husband Balding Mullet Man were going out to smoke. I politely told them I'd wait for them to come back, so they could take their time. They ignored me, of course. A few minutes later, a group of guys at the bar who were playing also went out to smoke. Then HH and BMM came back in, and immediately started glaring at me. Hey, it's not my fault that they're out past their bedtime. We don't do this just for her personal entertainment, you know.
Five minutes pass, and the bar guys haven't come back in yet. It's been about fifteen minutes since we ended the last round, and I'd said 10-15 minutes before the next. At this point, HH decided to speak to me--by hollering over a couple of tables at me. "Isn't it time? What are you waiting for?"
"Just waiting on some other players to come back in, they were smoking too." I was as polite as I could be even though I wanted to ignore her.
"Well!" She huffed. "You need to tell them to go when it's time so we don't have to wait!"
I stared at her for a moment. "I'm sure they'll be back soon," I said, and deliberately turned to talk to someone else. Sure enough, the guys sauntered back in about a minute later. I waited an extra couple of minutes before I started, just to piss off Helmet Hair. I also, again, took satisfaction in her not winning a single round. Petty, yes, but she's such a bitch!
The next week, CL told me that we were going to start bingo a half an hour later from now on, and said she heard people were getting restless and she'd talked to them. I laughed, because I knew she was talking about Helmet Hair, and sure enough I saw her explaining it to the witch.
Helmet Hair didn't win anything that week, either.
The entire point of this stuff is to keep people there, hopefully ordering drinks and appetizers and desserts. So we take breaks in between rounds, and basically it's a leisurely thing. I try to keep track of when people go out to smoke or whatever and wait for them to get back.
This particular night, Helmet Hair and her husband Balding Mullet Man were going out to smoke. I politely told them I'd wait for them to come back, so they could take their time. They ignored me, of course. A few minutes later, a group of guys at the bar who were playing also went out to smoke. Then HH and BMM came back in, and immediately started glaring at me. Hey, it's not my fault that they're out past their bedtime. We don't do this just for her personal entertainment, you know.
Five minutes pass, and the bar guys haven't come back in yet. It's been about fifteen minutes since we ended the last round, and I'd said 10-15 minutes before the next. At this point, HH decided to speak to me--by hollering over a couple of tables at me. "Isn't it time? What are you waiting for?"
"Just waiting on some other players to come back in, they were smoking too." I was as polite as I could be even though I wanted to ignore her.
"Well!" She huffed. "You need to tell them to go when it's time so we don't have to wait!"
I stared at her for a moment. "I'm sure they'll be back soon," I said, and deliberately turned to talk to someone else. Sure enough, the guys sauntered back in about a minute later. I waited an extra couple of minutes before I started, just to piss off Helmet Hair. I also, again, took satisfaction in her not winning a single round. Petty, yes, but she's such a bitch!
The next week, CL told me that we were going to start bingo a half an hour later from now on, and said she heard people were getting restless and she'd talked to them. I laughed, because I knew she was talking about Helmet Hair, and sure enough I saw her explaining it to the witch.
Helmet Hair didn't win anything that week, either.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Napkin panic!
Around Christmas time, we had just a delightful group of people coming in every Tuesday. Yes, that is sarcasm. Last Monday, the Bastard Conductor was back with a date, but they left at about 12:15 so I wasn't too pissed.
Tuesday night, we got a call saying that our favorite group headed by BC would be coming in at 10:15 and there would be 15 of them. I immediately told Dallas that I could not take them--I have class in the morning, I couldn't be hanging around until all hours waiting on them. So Dallas then told Anna she wouldn't close for her, which actually made everybody happy in the long run.
10:15 came and went with no sign of the dreaded party. 10:30, 10:45, 11 .... We were all thinking we'd dodged the bullet, that maybe they'd decided they didn't want to deal with the noise and chaos of trivia night. You know where this is going, right? Yeah, the motherfuckers rolled in at 11:30. They sat themselves, surprise surprise, and almost immediately started being rude. BC approached the bartender and demanded to know who was waiting on them, because "we're so thirsty!" As Anna attempted to take their drink order, they kept moving and yelling back and forth to each other between the two tables they're commandeered. She was ready to start breathing fire before they ever finished ordering their $1 beers.
Then, while she was in the kitchen pouring all the waters they wanted along with their beers, I heard one of them bitching about where she went, he was hungry! For a while, while they were waiting for their appetizers (the cheapest ones on special, of course), they were only moderately obnoxious, screeching back and forth about set design for their show or something. When their food came, Anna asked if they needed anything else. Of course, they did. Ranch and napkins and more water and more marinara and more ranch, and another order of this and more ketchup.
Thirty seconds after she walked in to the kitchen, one of these jerks stood up by his table and loudly announced, "WE NEED NAPKINS!" As if one of us lowly workers should be standing by, waiting for the opportunity to fetch His Highness whatever he might desire. I heard him, but I was two sections away cleaning the floors. When nobody came rushing to hand him napkins while licking his boots, he went to the bar.
Cali Girl, being smiley and polite, asked what he needed. He demanded napkins: "She said she would get us some, but we still don't have any!" Cali told him she'd run out, but would go the kitchen to get some after she finished making this drink. Napkin Jackass turned back to his table, where another one of them said "We still don't have napkins!"
"Well, I thought she was going to get us some! All she had to do was reach down and get them, she said she was, but I guess not!" he said this as loudly as possible; if I were Cali, I'd've turned around and stared him down. Especially when the asshole then tried to lean over the bar to get the napkins she'd just told him weren't there! Anna came out of the back, napkins in hand, as he was contorting himself over the bar. Less than a minute had elapsed since she went to the back in the first place!
I had to leave shortly after; that was at 12:30. We closed at 12, so for the last half an hour I'd been gradually turning down the music and the lights. One half of the restaurant was dark, and the music was off, when I left; Anna later told me the jerks didn't leave until after 1a.m.
And lucky me, if they come in this week it's totally my turn to take them.
Tuesday night, we got a call saying that our favorite group headed by BC would be coming in at 10:15 and there would be 15 of them. I immediately told Dallas that I could not take them--I have class in the morning, I couldn't be hanging around until all hours waiting on them. So Dallas then told Anna she wouldn't close for her, which actually made everybody happy in the long run.
10:15 came and went with no sign of the dreaded party. 10:30, 10:45, 11 .... We were all thinking we'd dodged the bullet, that maybe they'd decided they didn't want to deal with the noise and chaos of trivia night. You know where this is going, right? Yeah, the motherfuckers rolled in at 11:30. They sat themselves, surprise surprise, and almost immediately started being rude. BC approached the bartender and demanded to know who was waiting on them, because "we're so thirsty!" As Anna attempted to take their drink order, they kept moving and yelling back and forth to each other between the two tables they're commandeered. She was ready to start breathing fire before they ever finished ordering their $1 beers.
Then, while she was in the kitchen pouring all the waters they wanted along with their beers, I heard one of them bitching about where she went, he was hungry! For a while, while they were waiting for their appetizers (the cheapest ones on special, of course), they were only moderately obnoxious, screeching back and forth about set design for their show or something. When their food came, Anna asked if they needed anything else. Of course, they did. Ranch and napkins and more water and more marinara and more ranch, and another order of this and more ketchup.
Thirty seconds after she walked in to the kitchen, one of these jerks stood up by his table and loudly announced, "WE NEED NAPKINS!" As if one of us lowly workers should be standing by, waiting for the opportunity to fetch His Highness whatever he might desire. I heard him, but I was two sections away cleaning the floors. When nobody came rushing to hand him napkins while licking his boots, he went to the bar.
Cali Girl, being smiley and polite, asked what he needed. He demanded napkins: "She said she would get us some, but we still don't have any!" Cali told him she'd run out, but would go the kitchen to get some after she finished making this drink. Napkin Jackass turned back to his table, where another one of them said "We still don't have napkins!"
"Well, I thought she was going to get us some! All she had to do was reach down and get them, she said she was, but I guess not!" he said this as loudly as possible; if I were Cali, I'd've turned around and stared him down. Especially when the asshole then tried to lean over the bar to get the napkins she'd just told him weren't there! Anna came out of the back, napkins in hand, as he was contorting himself over the bar. Less than a minute had elapsed since she went to the back in the first place!
I had to leave shortly after; that was at 12:30. We closed at 12, so for the last half an hour I'd been gradually turning down the music and the lights. One half of the restaurant was dark, and the music was off, when I left; Anna later told me the jerks didn't leave until after 1a.m.
And lucky me, if they come in this week it's totally my turn to take them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)