the bitchy waiter

I Hate Morning People

2012-01-31T19:50:00.000-05:00

I am up at the ass crack of dawn today. If there were roosters in New York City, they would be cock-a-doodle-dooing right now. Instead, the rats are looking at me like, "Why the fuck are you up so early, lazy ass?" No, I am not serving breakfast or still up from my night of drinking. Alarm goes off at seven and you start uptown. You put in your eight hours for the powers that have always been. Till it's five P.M. (Bonus points for you if you know what that line is from.) I am taking a break from food service in order to pursue my other calling for a few days, selling pottery. And when I say "pursue my other calling" I mean "this job I got off of Craigslist." Twice a year, I am a sales rep for a big time pottery company and sell plates and vases and crap to the likes of Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel and little old ladies who own stores in Cape Cod. It's a sweet little gig except for the whole getting up before the cows come home thing.

I am not a morning person as is evidenced by the scowl that is on my face right this second. I once lived with a friend who worked the breakfast shift and she had to be at work at some crazy fucking time like 5:30 AM. She would be done with her day by 11:30 and come home with a fist full of dollars, take a nap and be good to go. I never could do that. Morning people are just as foreign to me as those who have children. I know they exist but I can't wrap my brain around how they do it. Kim would pop out of bed and be on her merry way to the breakfast shift at the diner while I would on my water bed asking her to please hurry the fuck up and turn the light out. I always envy morning people. They seem so productive, getting their laundry done before The View and all, but I just can't do it. I've tried, believe me. My aunt is a morning person who wakes up before the sun has even thought about rising and has a cup of coffee and does the crossword puzzle and then will have all her household chores done before 9:00 AM. The downside of being a morning person is these people have to go to bed early to do it. Do they know what wonders they are missing that only happen after 10:00 PM? Like the news, or Jimmy Kimmel, or House Hunters International on HGTV?

My point is, today I am a morning person. Since I don't drink coffee, anyone who sits next to me on the 7 train better watch out. My grump could accidentally spill over onto them and cause second and third degree burns. I cannot fake a smile or have a conversation and during my shower this morning, I don't even think I had the energy to use soap. If you happen to see a guy today selling pottery who looks like he is one grumpy ass bitch and who's hair is matted down in the back because it took too much effort to wash it, that would be me. Come up to me. Say hello. And if you see a rooster who is trying to cockle-doodle doo, punch it in the gut for me will you? And speaking of roosters, click here to see one big cock.

(Yes, this was a re-post, but I am selling pottery again at the Jacob Javits Center all day...)

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Another Broken Finger Update

2012-01-30T16:47:00.000-05:00

Yes, another update about the asshole customer, John Castle, who allegedly broke the finger of his server, Paul Kucik when the waiter had the nerve to present the check to him. The waiter sued the asshole customer and now there is word that the asshole customer is counter suing the sever. I won't get into the details again because you can click the links above to read the original story, but why the hell is this asshole counter suing? One report said that the server was suing for at least $15,000 but the asshole who allegedly broke the finger is a multi-millionaire. Wouldn't $15,000 be chump change for him? If he is worth $10,000,000 then $15,000 is .15% of his wealth. Let me put into terms we can understand: if we made a $100 and had to tip out .15% to the busser, that would be fifteen whole fucking cents. His wife probably uses $15,000 for her weekly "fresh flowers in the bathroom" budget. He probably has a tie that cost that much money and whenever someone compliments it he says, 'Oh this old thing? This is what I put on when I don't care what I look like." Hey, John Ass'le, we already know you don't care what you look like, you Mr. Burns doppelgänger, you.

According to reports, both side have witnesses to back up their claim. Allow me to imagine how that might go down.

John Ass'le's witness on the stand is a 62 year old woman who was dining at the next table:

Yes your honor, I had just put a bite of caviar into my mouth when the incident happened. I could barely see what was going on because I just got an eye lift three weeks before and the skin around my face hadn't really settled in yet. But from I what I saw, the lowly waiter practically threw the check at my dear friend John Castle. John politely explained to him that he wasn't ready for the check yet and asked that he just add it to his monthly account. The waiter became very irate at this point. I took another sip of champagne and adjusted my Spanx and the next thing I knew the waiter was howling in misery the same way I do when my maid touches my jewelry box. He was screaming that John had hurt him but I simply don't believe it. John would never hurt a fly. He is the kindest , sweetest most thoughtful multi-millionaire I have ever met.

Paul Kucik's witness on the stand is a 38 year old waiter who was also at work that night:

Yes your honor, John Castle is a regular and he is a rude arrogant man who we all hate to serve because he treats us like dirt. I cannot be certain, but I also think he likes the smell of his own farts. His wife asked Paul for the check which is unusual because we normally just add it to the customer's monthly account. But since she told Paul to give the check to her husband, that's what he did. Mr. Castle called Paul a schmuck and grabbed the check with his left hand. With his right hand, he squeezed Paul's hand and then started to bend his fingers back. It wasn't really that surprising because we all know what a prick he is. Same shit, different day, you know your honor? Paul fell to his knees and that is when Mr. Castle let go of his hand. Paul went to the side stand and his hand was all swelled up like Mrs. Castle's lips are every other week when she gets her bi-monthly lip injection of virgin sheep collagen. Paul, finished his side work and then punched out and went to the hospital for an x-ray which is when he learned his finger was broken by the biggest asshole who ever comes to our restaurant.

The whole thing will probably be settled out of court unless Mr. Ass'le wants to bury this guy in legal fees simply because he can afford to do it. Why can't he just admit that he lost his cool and then shell out the money for the guy? This is the kind of person who gives the 1% a bad name. I will try to keep an eye out for updates on the story, but quite frankly, the whole thing pisses me off.

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And the winner is...

2012-01-29T08:23:00.007-05:00

After days and days of anticipation, I can finally announce the two winners of the ever-so-popular Bitchy Waiter Shoe Giveaway. I am giving away two free pair of work shoes from my good friends at Shoes For Crews. I have a pair myself and could not be happier with them. All entries submitted a photo and the top two that received the most "likes" is the winner. After tallying all the votes of the 16 entrants, the winners are:

First place, Christy T. with 147 votes

Second place, Sam K. with 126 votes

You will each be contacted via Facebook and I will let you know how to go about claiming your news shoes. Or if you are reading this, email me at side of mustard at gmail dot com. Thank you to all who participated. I have two more pair to give away and have not decided on the contest yet. Open for suggestion, so do you have any ideas? Thanks!

The Bitchy Waiter

Waitress Kicks Some Ass

2012-01-28T08:34:00.002-05:00

Another hero waitress has been discovered! In Cookeville, Tennessee, a customer thought she would be able to eat at Mandarin Palace and then slip out without paying for her meal. "Not so," said waitress Susan Wang, who had other thoughts. I mean look at her picture there. Would you mess with anyone who can give a side-eye like that?

20 year old Sonya Allen gobbled up three plates of egg rolls, orange chicken and monosodium glutemate at a Chinese food buffet and then tried to be all sneaky and slip slide out of the restaurant without paying her $13 bill. That is when Wang went into action. Her family owns the newly opened restaurant and she was all, "I don't think so, lady. This ain't no dine and ditch, bitch." The 5' 1" and 110 pound bundle of waitress screamed out to call the cops and then took matters into her own hands. Literally. She grabbed Allen and whipped her around in an an arm hold worthy of a NYC dirty cop and then pulled her hair until the thieving customer fell to her knees. Wang then put her knee of the back of the customer and that is where she stayed until the cops came and arrested her. Allen was charged with disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, failure to eat at a Chinese restaurant with a decent name and drug possession when police found Xanax pills on her without a prescription. Way to go, Susan Wang! You are one tough chickie. If I saw you on the 7 train and you had your eyes on the last seat in the car, I would defer to you immediately.

Since Hero Waitress owns the restaurant with her family, she was a little (a lot) more invested in it than I ever would be. Had it been me who saw the customer exiting sans payment, I am not quite so sure I would risk life, limb and lazy to chase after the patron. Since it's pretty much illegal to make a server responsible for walk-outs, I would have been like, "Um, manager? That lady driving the green Honda out of the parking lot? Yeah, she just stole thirteen of your dollars. She looked like a cheap ho anyway so I wasn't expecting a tip, so I'm cool. No worries."

What about you? What would you do if you saw one of your customers trying to leave without paying their check?

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Grumpy Ass at Table 12

2012-01-26T23:50:00.000-05:00

Honestly, most of the people who come into restaurants are pretty nice. It's the other 5% who are assholes. And one of those 5% was sitting at table 12 last night. I work in a music venue where we have a showtime. If the show is at 8:00, we ask people to get there by 7:30 so they have plenty of time to check their coats, find their seats, order their cocktails, chat with friends, douche, etc. We also have a two-drink minimum as is customary at many of these types of clubs. Two. Drink. Minimum. We tell them when they make a reservation, it's on any postcard or flier that the performer passes out, it's on the menu, and we tell them when they get there. The only way we could make it any clearer is if we tattooed it on their faces which would be a truly wonderful thing.

The show started at 9:30. At 9:40, the door opened and in dragged a latecomer looking all pissed off that he had missed the beginning of the show, as if it's our fault for starting on time. "Hello, sir. Welcome," said the hostess. "Do you have a reservation?"

"I was told I didn't need one," he said. It sounded like he was pushing out a really solid piece of poop as he said it because his teeth were grinding and he had a serious constipation face.

"That's fine. And what's your name?"

He gave her a look of disdain. Or maybe it was sign of relief that his poop had receded back inside. "Bobby Douchebag Face." (The names have been changed to protect the assholes.)

"Alright, and can I get a phone number for you, Bobby Douchebag Face?"

He sighed heavily and and furrowed his brow. "Why do you need my phone number?"

The hostess explained to him that we take phone numbers so that if something is left behind like a scarf or dildo, we can call them to let them know. This is true, but mostly we do it so that if some low-life scumbag tries to skip out on his check, we can track his cheap ass down. He gave her his phone number. "Do you need my fingerprints too now?" Such a charmer. The hostess then asked him what he wanted for his drinks that evening. Plural. Drinks. He ordered some wine and a cheese plate and was taken to his seat. The show was now fifteen minutes in.

I quickly placed his wine before him and told him I would be back shortly with his cheese plate, although cheese seemed like the last thing this constipated asswipe needed. He called me back. As I leaned in towards him, he jutted his chin forward and pulled the corners of his mouth downward. (Do that.) At the same time he raised his eyebrows really high. (Do that too. Doesn't it just make you look like an asshole?) "Might I get some water with no ice?"

"You might if you say please," I thought. "Yes, sir," I said. Of course he didn't say thank you for the water. He didn't say thank you for the cheese plate. He didn't say thank you when I noticed his water glass was empty and I filled it without being asked. He never said anything to me. I repeatedly asked him if he wanted another glass of wine and he never did. Since we have a two-drink minimum, I added the minimum charge to his check which is for $5.50. After the show, when he looked at his bill, he called me over.

"Excuse me, but what is this 'minimum charge' on here about?"

I switched on to automatic waiter mode and smiled brightly. "Well we have a two-beverage minimum and you only had one so I have to add the minimum charge."

"I had food instead of another drink."

"Right, but we have a two-drink minimum and I can't substitute food for a beverage." This is true. Even though the food is more expensive than a drink, the mark-up is not as high, therefore two drink minimum. Sometimes I can look the other way, but not for this asshole.

"I assumed that the food would take the place of the second drink." He now looked like he was full on taking a dump in his pants, his face was so red and veiny.

"No, I'm sorry, it doesn't. Did someone tell you that?" Still smiling, me.

"No, but I assumed."

"Would you like a bottled water that you can take with you?"

"Well I suppose so since I'm already paying for it. I just don't understand why..."

"Sparkling or flat water, sir and I'll be right back with it."

He agreed to a Pelligrino but I saw him go back to the hostess to complain. She told him the same thing I did. He stared at his check for about ten minutes. Maybe he thought his Douchebag Face stare would remove the charge from his bill, but it didn't. He finally handed me his credit card and I charged him the $50.00. Knowing I would get no tip, I placed it back in front of him and told him thank you and to have a good night and all that other bullshit. He left me four bucks, which was more than I expected.

Had he been nice at any point during the evening, I would have been happy to remove the minimum charge for him. Yes, it's a rule, but sometime they can be bent. If he would have been kind and smiled and said, "I'm sorry. I really thought that since I ordered the cheese plate, it could take the place of my second drink. I guess I misunderstood," I would have been apt to be kind in return. But he was an asshole from the second he walked in (late) and I had no reason to do anything for him.

Moral of the story: be nice. Just be fucking nice, you grumpy asshole.

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Bad Parenting Caught on Facebook

2012-01-25T15:42:00.000-05:00

Some of my favorite posts to write are based on photos and news stories that people send in to me. Today's blog post is in thanks to Katharine who sent this awesome photo of a child caught in the act of making me hate her. Katharine herself is pretty awesome and if you need proof, check her out in the fabulously funny improve comedy show Naked in a Fishbowl. Anyhoo, on to the picture.

It comes from a blog called STFU, Parents which is kinda right up my alley. In the photo, we see an adorable little bundle of annoying expressing her creative side by scribbling all over the fucking wall at a restaurant. The mom thought is was so cute that she snapped a picture of it and then sent it to her Facebook page with the caption "She thought the wall was boring so she added a little color." She followed that insipid remark with the ubiquitous "lol." Okay mom-named-Karina, prepare for a thrashing from The Bitchy Waiter:

Who the hell do you think is going to clean that mess up, you horrible excuse for a parent, the Crayola Elves? Unless there is some fucking bleach in that Dora the Explorer cup and you plan on using it to remove your daughter's artistic interpretation of "Lunch With Lazy Mom" then you you need to put the camera down and explain to your daughter that this is not how children behave while at Denny's or IHOP or wherever the hell you went. Meanwhile, the waitress is probably standing behind you shooting you the crusty evil eye and giving the signal to Bubba the fry cook that it is okay if he wants to flip your pancakes with the broom and add some "special sauce" to your syrup. Your waitress hates you. I also see a few Equal packets laying there on the table which means there are at least five or six of them on the floor under the booth, because a sugar caddy is the perfect play thing for a two-year old, right? If your daughter found the wall to be boring, maybe you should have told her, "I know it's not as fancy as the wall paper we have back home in the double-wide, sweetie, but you just sit your butt down and wait for the food to get here." You do not encourage her to vandalize. I don't know the name of your daughter, but I am going to go with something like Tiffany Lynn. You are setting Tiffany Lynn up for a future of bitch. Anyone who allows their children to do whatever they want is going to soon realize they have raised a spoiled little brat who thinks she can get away with anything. Invariably, this will lead to a road of pole dancing and a six week contract with 16 and Pregnant. If your daughter was bored, I am sure there were other things you could have done rather than letting her draw on the fucking wall. I am not a parent and I just pulled these suggestions out of thin air, but what about these great ideas:

give her a book to read
let her color on a piece of paper
tell her a story
pour some NyQuil® in her sippy cup. (Again, I am not a parent. This may or may not be a good idea, but to me it sounds great.)
play the quiet game
let her play with whatever is in your purse. (Good parents would first remove their weed, vibrators, make up, condoms and flasks.)
put her in her crate
give her your iPad
just fucking tell her she's not at home so she needs to sit her ass down and behave herself.

Karina, I hope you will keep these points in mind the next time you take little Tiffany Lynn out to eat. It may be helpful if you print this out. That way, when you have a hankering for the Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n' Fruity your waitress won't have to spend an extra fifteen minutes scrubbing crayon scribbles off the wall. And one more thing Karina: you suck at parenting.

If you agree that Karina showed some shitty ass judgement, please leave a comment and/or share this.

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Update on Broken Finger Waiter

2012-01-25T14:43:00.008-05:00

Remember that asshole, John Castle, who broke the finger of his waiter earlier this month? I blogged about it here. Basically, the asshole got all pissed off that his waiter, Paul Kucik brought him his check (how dare he!) and John Ass'le was so incensed that he grabbed the waiter's hand and ended up breaking his finger. As suspected, the waiter filed a lawsuit. According to the complaint, “Defendant Castle, without provocation or warning, intentionally grabbed Plaintiff Kucik’s left hand and began twisting, bending and squeezing Kucik’s fingers, causing a fracture. Castle’s conduct was of gross and flagrant character, evincing a reckless disregard for the plaintiff’s safety. Defendant also totally looks like Mr. Burns from The Simpson's and that's just plain weird.”

Is it John Castle or Mr. Burns?

It looks like the suit is for at least $15,000. I will keep abreast of the situation so that we will know exactly how this goes down. We servers are treated like shit plenty of times but we certainly don't need to have our fingers broken by every Tom, Dick and Hairless.

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Year of the Dragon

2012-01-23T16:18:00.002-05:00

I don't really follow my horoscope so much. I am a Gemini which basically means I am two-faced bitch who likes to talk too much. Spot on. When it comes to Chinese astrology, I know even less. I do know that I was born in the year of the Goat which I presume makes me a stubborn old nag who eats tin cans for dinner and is always grumpy, so yeah, good call Chinese horoscope. A quick Google search also tells me that Goats "will only assume leadership roles when asked directly, they'll never volunteer." Right again. Good career options for us Goat Asses include "florist, interior designer, daycare teacher, pediatrician, actor, editor, hair stylist, illustrator, musician, and art history teacher." All Goats are gay men. Additionally, Goats "feel most comfortable at home and alone and they prefer the couch because there they can relax and explore their minds." The description of Goat Me is eerily correct leading me to believe I may be part Chinese which would explain my love for General Tso's Chicken. But today marks the beginning of a new year. It's not the eye of the tiger nor the hair of the dog, it's the Year of the Dragon so get your fire-breathin' asses ready for a phenomenal year. Since all I know about dragons is what I learned in 1977's Pete's Dragon, I did some research to see what the Year of the Dragon is all about other than Helen Reddy singing "Candle on the Water".

I doubt anyone who is reading this was born this morning but they are the newest Year of the Dragon folks. And just because we are Rats and Goats and Monkeys that doesn't mean we can't take some of the fiery characteristics of the Dragon and incorporate them into our daily lives. This is how I will do it for the rest of 2012:

Dragons symbolize such character traits as dominance and ambition. Therefore I will dominate my tables with my keen sense of I-don't-give-a-fuck.
Dragons prefer to live by their own rules and if left on their own, are usually successful. Therefore, I will decide when and how you will get your burger cooked and the rule is you tip me 25% so I can become the most successful waiter of all Dragons.
They’re driven, unafraid of challenges, and willing to take risks. This means I will take the risk of drinking Chardonnay in paper cups while at work and accept the challenge of carrying a tray while totally buzzed on cheap house wine.
They’re passionate in all they do and they do things in grand fashion. I am not passionate about waiting tables. Fail, Chinese Horoscope people.
Unfortunately, this passion and enthusiasm can leave Dragons feeling exhausted and interestingly, unfulfilled. Oh, wait I take that back. Right again, Chinese Horoscope people.
Dragons could benefit from incorporating mild activity into their lives like yoga or walking. Um, I will substitute yoga for Vodka and walking with Tequila.
Dragons prefer leading to being led. This is why I am always striving to be Superstar Employee of the Month and/or head waiter. Right, uh huh.

If I am unable to fulfill these goals for the Year of the Dragon, then I will instead vow to be Shelley Winters as Lena Gogan in Pete's Dragon for Halloween.

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Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

2012-01-21T08:41:00.003-05:00

What is the fascination that people have with the mystical creation of Ranch dressing? Where I come from in South Texas, it is the third favorite beverage right behind Lone Star and Dr. Pepper. If I had a dollar for every time someone said "Can I get a large Ranch dressing on the rocks, please?" I would have exactly two dollars. There was a time when I too was guilty of devouring huge portions of this delectable concoction and for the record, I will still stand behind the wonderful flavor combination of pepperoni pizza from Mr. Gatti's dipped in Ranch. Just thinking about it sends me back to 1983. Over the years, my tastes have changed and my craving for Ranch slowly waned. Some people, however, will never get over their need for the creamy calories.

The restaurant I work in has a very small menu. All of our sauces and dressings are house made so when people ask for 1000 Island or some other familiar dressing from the grocery store, they are out of luck. Since it isn't in Texas or nestled in a hidden valley anywhere, I have never had anyone ask for Ranch. Until last week.

customer: I'd like fried calamari, what does that come with?
me: It comes with our house made spicy marinara sauce.
customer: Okay, but I'd like Ranch dressing instead.
me: I'm sorry, we don't have Ranch dressing.
customer: What?
me: We don't have Ranch dressing, will the marinara be alright?
customer: Why don't you have Ranch?
me: Um, we just don't have it.
customer: But how you can not have Ranch?
me: We just don't have it. Would you like to order the calamari anyway?
customer: Where's the nearest deli?
me: There is a little grocery store right across the street that probably sells-
customer: Oh! Well?

long pause

customer: Well, I guess I could go buy it.
me: Yes, you could go buy it. Would you like to order the calamari?
customer: Yes, I'll have the calamari.

In a flash, the lady had her coat on and was racing across the street to satisfy her need for Ranch dressing. Five minutes later, she was happily ensconced in her booth with a bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch proudly sitting on the table. I placed the calamari in front of her and she wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle of dressing and poured it onto the plate. "Is there anything else you need?" I asked.

She looked up at me with a grin on her face and a bit of Ranch dressing on her chin and said, 'I have everything I need right here." She poured a little more dressing onto her plate and swirled a forkful of calamari through it. "But you should tell your boss to order some Ranch dressing. It's delicious!"

"Yes ma'am, I'll do that. Enjoy your calamari."

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It's a Very Butter Birthday, Y'all

2012-01-19T15:22:00.001-05:00

January 19, 1947 was a very special day. It was a crisp clear morning in Albany, Georgia with wisps of white clouds floating in the blue heavens. On one of those clouds was a stick of butter, sad and alone. On another cloud not too far away was a can of Crisco who was horny as all hell. The can of Crisco put a little bit of vanilla behind her ears and went out to find some action. It wasn't long before she spotted that stick of butter and she set her sights on it. "Hey, butter," she said. "Why don't you come over here and and let's see what happens when we emulsify." The butter, having nothing else to do thought, "Why not?" and jumped into that crazy can of Crisco. At that same moment, a cloud made of bacon happened to be floating by and caught a glimpse of what was going on. In an effort to get a better view, the bacon cloud swooped in a little closer and the next thing it knew, it was right smack dab in the middle of a three-way. The bacon, butter and Crisco all became one in much the same way that a turducken is created. When all three ingredients were satisfied, they each did the walk of shame back to their respective areas of the sky leaving behind a greasy wet spot on a tired used up terry cloth cloud. The sun shone on that that greasy wet spot and it grew into a bigger greasy wet spot and within twenty minutes it had developed into something the world had never seen. It took the shape of a Smithfield Ham and slid down a oleo-coated rainbow where it landed in a baby crib in the home of a young couple who were waiting for the stork to arrive. The couple looked down at the new arrival and said, "Well, I thought it would be cuter but I guess it is what it is. We shall call it Paula Deen." Today is Paula Deen's 65th birthday, y'all!

I ♥ Paula Deen from The Bitchy Waiter on Vimeo.

Paula Deen just announced that she has Type-2 diabetes. No real surprise there, seeing how we all know how she likes to eat. She teamed up with a pharmaceutical company and is now the paid spokesperson for Novo Nordisk, a diabetes medication. Is it wrong? I say "no, it isn't." She never pretended that what she was cooking was healthy and she never made anyone buy her cookbooks. It's all choice. And now she has the choice to ether keep eating the way she does and stay on medication or change her habits and try to get off the medication. Whichever one she chooses, I hope that today she is having a big birthday cake to celebrate. Might a suggest a doughnut covered chocolate marshmallow pudding pie with a side of sticky honey cake with caramel cream Rocky Road ice cream sprinkles on a bed of crushed Oreos and bacon? Happy birthday, Paula Deen!

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Waitress Hits Customer With Coffee Pot; Becomes My Hero

2012-01-18T23:50:00.000-05:00

Not a day go by it seems where there isn't a waiter or waitress in the news for something. Either a waiter is having his finger broken by a customer or a waitress is winning $104,000 on The Price Is Right. Today I see in the news that in the sleepy town of Beaufort, South Carolina a waitress was sent to jail for hitting a customer up against the side of her head with a coffee pot. The story goes that it was the overnight shift at the Waffle House and after waiting for 25 minutes to be served, a customer got into an argument with the waitress resulting in the head banging with said coffee pot. The police were called at 3:20 AM and they found what was believed to be marijuana in the waitress' apron pocket. Wait, you mean a waitress who works the overnight shift at the fucking Waffle House in Beaufort, South Carolina has to be on drugs in order to get through that hot mess? Color me surprised. No medical attention was needed which basically means the waitress didn't hit the lady hard enough. She was arrested on charges of misdemeanor assault and battery and possession of marijuana and then released on her own recognizance. To top it all off, she probably had to go back to the fucking Waffle House and finish her sidework which consisted of filling the syrups, stocking the butters and mopping the floor.

This story makes me sad. As usual, I wasn't there, but of course I side with the waitress. I imagine that the customer was some tired old hag who was siting in the smoking section and had been nursing her black coffee since she got off her cashier shift at the Piggly Wiggly down the street. (Okay, just so you know, I totally made up that there was a Piggly Wiggly down the street but a quick Google map search shows that there really is one! Ah, the south.)

The customer probably ordered the chocolate chip pancakes with toffee syrup and whipped cream and soon started screaming that she was starving and it was taking forever to get her food. The waitress looked at the computer and saw it had only been eight minutes and when she told the customer it hadn't really been "forever," the customer got all whiny and bitchy and called the waitress a name insulting her position as head waitress of the overnight shift at Waffle House. You know, because in the world of Beaufort, South Carolina a cashier at Piggly Wiggly is way above a waitress at Waffle House but still far below the position of stock manager at the Walmart Super Center which is also right down the street in the opposite direction of Piggly Wiggly. (Seriously, I Googled that too.) Our waitress, who may or may not have been buzzed on A&W Root Beer, sub-par bacon and marijuana, couldn't take it anymore and popped that bitch in the head with one of those metal coffee pots and said, "Bitch your fucking pancakes will be ready when they're ready, now shut the fuck up." Again, I was not there, so don't quote me. (And if you are reading this and you are either the waitress or the customer, how you doin?)

The whole story leaves us with a lot of questions:

Why did the cops feel the need to search the waitress' apron?
Did they have a search warrant or were they just looking for a pen to take notes with?
Did the waitress get to keep her job?
Did the customer ever get her chocolate chip pancakes?
Who did the paper work and covered the floor after they carted the waitress' ass away? Surely there wasn't more than one waitress on the floor at the Waffle House at 3:20 AM.
Have you entered the Bitchy Waiter Shoe Giveaway yet?
Did the waitress learn that if she's gonna hit some bitch in the head with a coffee pot and go to jail for it, that she should at least do it hard enough to require medical attention?
Have either of them tasted the Steak Quesadilla Towers at the Applebee's across the street? (Seriously, there is an Applebee's across the street. Beaufort sounds like a little piece of heaven.)
Is marijuana really enough?
Can the waitress please email me and tell me what it feels like to actually follow through on that "I wanna punch this bitch in the face" feeling?

Best wishes, Waffle House waitress. We servers are on your side.

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Excuses For Not Leaving a Tip

2012-01-17T22:56:00.001-05:00

I wasn't going to blog about this but I simply could not resist. There is a picture floating around on the Internet of what was left for a waiter instead of a tip on Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday. The person justified that since his ancestors worked for free, then so could that waiter. But they also added "God Bless" just to make sure everyone knows they're a Christian. Whenever someone chooses to not a leave a tip, they think they have a good reason. Deep down in their soul, they know it's because they are cheap ass mother fuckin' bitches who want to hold on to that last nickel until the day they die but they will come up with something to justify their no-tip behavior. Here are some of the excuses people tell themselves to make them feel better about stiffing their waiter:

My waiter didn't say thank you enough.
My french fries were cold.
The restrooms were dirty.
I didn't like the table I was sitting at.
The Denver Broncos lost.
I asked for two lemon wedges and he brought me three.
They were out of the dessert that I wanted even though I am not sure this is even the restaurant that ever had the Death By Chocolate Triple Fudge Fried Sundae.
My rent is due this week.
Nobody tips me for doing my job so why should I tip a waiter for doing his?
I left him Fake Jesus Money and eternal salvation is way better than the 25% tip I would have left instead.
I saw that asshole waiter on the Dr. Phil show. Fuck that noise.
I didn't have change for my hundred dollar bill.
I am going to come back after I run to to the ATM.
It took forever to get my food and I was in a hurry which is why I ordered a well-done steak and went with ten other people and we each asked for a separate check.
I did leave a tip. It wasn't there? Someone must have stolen it then because I left a twenty dollar bill on the table.
I told the waiter how great he was, that ought to be enough.
His uniform was dirty.
I don't believe in tipping money. Tipping is for cows.
I am from Europe.
I think that 40 years ago my ancestors were slaves who were owned by the ancestors of the waiter so I am not going to tip him even though in 1972 I don't think anyone owned slaves in the United States but since it's Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday, I will go ahead and use that argument because it's worth a shot and maybe the waiter will think I am all historically accurate and shit since the waiter is probably too stupid to know any better because if he was smart he would have a "real job."

To the person who left that stupid note: that is not the kind of dream that Martin Luther King Jr. was talking about.

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Have you entered the Bitchy Waiter Free Shoe Giveaway? You can win new shoes for work from Shoes For Crews. Click here!

Waiter Has Finger Broken By Asshole Customer

2012-01-16T23:00:00.002-05:00

Whenever there is some story in the news that involves a server, people send me the link to make sure I have heard about it. Such is the case with the waiter who had his finger broken by an angry customer. John Castle, 76 and the chairman and CEO of Castle Harlan, a private equity firm was eating at some fancy ass place in Palm Beach called Club Colette. You can click here to see some of the folks who were at the club's New Year's Eve party. Most of the pictures are of rich old white men with younger wives who are all pinched, nipped and tucked. I particularly hope that picture #11 is a father and daughter because anything else is just too creepy. Anyhoo, Castle got all pissed off when his waiter brought him the check. Castle allegedly grabbed the hand of the waiter Paul Kucik, and yelled, "You schmuck, why did you bring the bill to the table?" He then proceeded to bend the waiter's hand and when the server went to a doctor the next day he learned that his fucking finger was broken off. What the hell is that shit? Kucik said that the asshole's wife had asked for the check to be brought to her husband and he was only doing what he was asked to do. And what kind of question is "Why did you bring the bill to the table?" anyway? The answer to that question is, "Because you have to pay for your fucking food, asswipe." According to reports, this John Ass'le (see how that rhymes with Castle?) isn't the friendliest of people. Just looking at the guy you can tell he's not a people person. He looks like Mr. Burns from The Simpson's came to life and went out to eat:

One is John Castle and one is Mr. Burns. Eerie, ain't it?

No charges have been pressed against John Ass'le yet because the waiter has not gone to the police. He's probably waiting to get some huge settlement instead because, um, duh. He had his finger broken by a rich person. This is America and his ship just came in. Say goodbye to your apron, Paul Kucik, you just won the lottery.

Of course I wasn't there when this incident allegedly went down so I can only imagine what the waiter said as his finger was broken:

Here you are sir, just as your lovely and not at all overly made-up wife asked, I have your check for you. It was my pleasure serving you this evening- arrgh! That's my finger sir! You are hurting my finger! It is not meant to bend that way, sir. Oh my God! Someone help me, this asshole is breaking off my fucking finger! And it's the finger I use to type orders into the computer-my livelihood! I am about to scream! Arrrggh! Oh my God! My finger is now hanging off my hand! It is definitely broken. John Castle, the incredibly rich CEO of an investment firm just assaulted me and broke my finger, oh my God! Call 911! CALL 911! (pause) Wait, don't call 911, I'm alright, I'm alright. Never mind Does anyone have the name of a good lawyer? And someone do my fucking sidework, I'm outta here, bitches.

Good luck, Paul Kucik. Take this asshole down for all of us who are shit on by people who think they are better than us.

Have you entered the Bitchy Waiter Free Shoe Giveaway? You can win new shoes for work from Shoes For Crews. Click here!

A Dirty Mop Tale

2012-01-15T23:57:00.000-05:00

It seemed like it was going to be the average ordinary kind of day at work as I walked the three blocks to the restaurant for my dinner shift. As usual, I wasn't in the mood but even more so this day because I had been off the night before and I wanted to remain off for as long as possible. The door to the restaurant was locked so I pounded on the window until one of the cooks could pull himself away from peeling potatoes in order to let me inside. I clocked in and headed to the coffee machine to turn it on so it could start warming up. The first thing I always do after that is get ready to mop, my least favorite thing to do at work. I have to do it before every shift and I find it very tedious. The sweeping beforehand is fine but everything to do with the mopping part irritates me. The bucket is all the way in the basement and carrying it up the narrow stairway is cumbersome but I guess the worst part is pretending that I give a shit if the floor is clean or not. I walked over to the where the mop is stored and I was greeted by a beautiful sight: someone had changed the mop head and waiting for me was a beautiful never-before-used mop head that was white and dry and practically illuminating.

The mop head is usually a sorry sight. There are people who work way more shifts than I do yet replacing the mop head always seems to fall on me. Maybe I care more than I want to because when the mop is the color of disgusting, I can't help but change it. Lately though, I have noticed that if I don't change it, no one does so I decided to wait and see how long it will be before someone else takes the initiative. It had been weeks but it finally happened. Virgin mop! Suddenly, my mood was lighter. I grabbed the mop and did a little Gene Kelly-esque waltz with it. I caressed the head of the mop. "Gee, you hair smells terrific," I whispered into the place where there should have been ears. I gave it a hug and we sprinted upstairs to pop her mop cherry. "Agua?" asked the dishwasher. "Si, por favor," I responded. He filled the bucket with warm soapy water

"You ready for this, Moppy?" I gently asked her. At first she was a little resistant to having her head guided to where I wanted it to go, but I was patient knowing it was her first time. I slowly submerged her into the warm bath of Murphy's Oil Soap and after a few seconds she realized how wonderful it was and she couldn't get enough. She eagerly swallowed up the water and practically begged me to drag her across the dirty floor. Moppy was now wet and covered with the signs of true love. After the first swab under table 16, it was obvious that this mop was a true whore mop bitch. She was filthy with bits of bread crumbs tangled in her strings and already she was earning that dirty mop bitch smell. I pushed her back and forth across the floor like I had never done with another mop and though her handle was saying "no" her head was saying "Yes, yes, yes!" I plunged her into the water again this time leaving her there a little longer than I should have, but I could tell she liked it. Again, I dragged that dirty bitch all over the floor and I even gave her a taste of the bathroom which is something I don't normally bother with, but with Moppy it just felt right. After about ten minutes, I was exhausted. I could tell that Moppy wanted more but I was finished and that was all that mattered. I wrung that bitch out and threw her back down into the basement to wait until I needed her again. I smoked a cigarette and looked at the floor, shiny and clean. "Damn, that mop was good." I was satisfied.

The rest of the night was fine but nothing is as exciting as the first time with a new mop. It made my fucking night.

Have you entered the Bitchy Waiter Free Shoe Giveaway? You can win new shoes for work from Shoes For Crews. Click here!

Free Shoes From Shoes For Crews

2012-01-13T20:20:00.000-05:00

I have been wearing the same crap pair of shoes to work for over two years. I bought them at Payless in 2009 and then a few months after that I bought some insoles to try to make them more comfortable. The "leather" on them has peeled off, they are cracked and the laces are more frayed than my nerves on a brunch shift. I only wear them at work so I didn't really care. It's not that I couldn't afford a new pair of shoes, it's just that I resent buying clothing and shoes that I will only wear when I am serving food. It pisses me off. A few weeks ago I was approached by Shoes For Crews and was told they would give me a free pair of work shoes in exchange for a review. You know my cheap-ass ears pricked up when the word "free" made itself known. I also knew Shoes For Crews from having bought my first pair many chicken fried steaks ago when I worked at Black Eyed Pea. I am also going to be giving out FOUR FREE PAIR for you, readers. Details on that later.

My Review of Shoes For Crews

I ordered a pair of Vibe II Shoes in a size 7 1/2. I went to the Shoes For Crews website and looked at all my options but I chose them because they looked comfortable, I liked the lace up kind of shoe versus a slip on and how could I resist the name of Vibe II? They showed up at my door one week later and the next day I wore them to work. First off, let me say, they are very comfortable. I practically floated to work because they are as light as homemade meringue unlike my Payless shoes that were so heavy they made me walk like I had a case of the clubfoot. All Shoes For Crews are slip resistant which is oh so very important in a restaurant. There are a lot of good reasons to wear slip resistant shoes at work, the number one reason being that you won't slip and bust your ass on the hard tile floor. I've done it when I worked at Bennigan's and they encouraged us to wear shitty Converse high tops. Those shoes have no support and they practically invite you to slide across a walk-in floor that is covered with Ranch dressing. Falling once into a pile of disgusting and getting your uniform dirty will make you forever praise the value of non-slip work shoes. My new Vibe II shoes do not slip!

When I put them on, the corn on my right foot gave me a look that said, "Aww, man! I can't stay here anymore, it's too roomy." These new shoes give my toes some room to breath which is a welcome relief. They fit my foot well without giving too much room so my heel slips out. Another thing I like about the shoes is that they came with a little scraper that I can use to get all the crap off the bottom. You know what I mean? Say you accidentally stepped on some old rotten cherry tomatoes that you dropped in the sidestand and were too lazy to pick up (it happens) and you didn't realize it until that night when you took your shoes off and saw all this gunk dried in the tread of the shoes. Before, I would have had to use a butter knife or an espresso spoon to scrape that shit out of the there, but Shoes For Crews gives you a handy dandy scarper for just that purpose. It's freakin' genius. The only thing more I could ask of these shoes is that they do my sidework for me.

You should totally get a pair for yourself, which leads me to this contest! The lovely folks at Shoes For Crews have given me the chance to offer my readers four pair of free shoes. I have the discount codes and everything. I am going to run two contests with two winners for each one. The first contest begins right now:

The Contest

Go to the Bitchy Waiter Facebook Page and submit a photo that have the words "The Bitchy Waiter" somewhere on it. Those words must be in the photograph. (Picnik is a good website to do this.) You can also email me here with the photo. Once the photo has been posted onto the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page, we will see which two photos get the most "likes" on it. The two with the most "likes" will each win a pair of work shoes from Shoe For Crews. (Yeah, so you have to get your friends to like the picture but first they will have to like Bitchy Waiter. See how I did that?) I am also going to put all the photos in an album so you can see all the photos in one place. Therefore, the photos can be "liked" in two different places; the wall and the photo album and both of those "likes" will be tallied. Here is an example:

This first contest begins right now at 1:00 PM EST on 1/13/12. The deadline to submit a photo is 1/27/12 at midnight EST and the winner will be determined by Monday January 30th. After that, I will start another contest for the other two pair of shoes. Cool? Alright then! Share this, tweet it and get busy. In just a couple of weeks your feet can be singing the praises of a brand new pair of work shoes brought to you by Shoes For Crews and The Bitchy Waiter!

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Bitchy Waiter Shoe Giveaway

2012-01-13T13:24:00.004-05:00

The Contest

Go to the Bitchy Waiter Facebook Page and submit a photo that have the words "The Bitchy Waiter" somewhere in it. Those words must be in the photograph. (Picnik is a good website to do this.) You can also email me here with the photo. Once the photo has been posted onto the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page, we will see which two photos get the most "likes" on it. The two with the most "likes" will each win a pair of work shoes from Shoe For Crews. (Yeah, so you have to get your friends to like the picture but first they will have to like Bitchy Waiter. See how I did that?) I am also going to put all the photos in an album so you can see all the photos in one place. Therefore, the photos can be "liked" in two different places; the wall and the photo album and both of those "likes" will be tallied. Here is an example:

This first contest begins right now at 1:00 PM EST on 1/13/12. The deadline to submit a photo is 1/27/12 at midnight EST and the winner will be determined by Monday January 30th. After that, I will start another contest for the other two pair of shoes. Cool? Alright then! Share this, tweet it and get busy. In just a couple of weeks your feet can be singing the praises of a brand new pair of work shoes brought to you by Shoes For Crews and The Bitchy Waiter!

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Dear Facebook,

2012-01-12T15:36:00.000-05:00

Dear Facebook,

Why have you cast me aside? I love you. I give you all of my spare time and I stay up late to be with you every night and how do you treat me? You tell me today that my blog posts are "spammy" and "unsafe!" Whyyyy? How can I get over this gross injustice? Is this just a bug that will heal itself or did someone in some cubicle somewhere make the decision that all posts from The Bitchy Waiter are dead to you? (No matter how cool the offices of Facebook must be to work in, you just know that some people are still stuck in a fucking cubicle, right?)

I just had to write a little something to see if you would let me post on you again, Facebook. Don't treat me like this. I've been with you for so very long. Remember when you used to let me Super Poke someone? And what about that time you let me throw a sheep at my brother? Those were the days. (Let's not go into my two week period of Farmville. Those were dark times for both of us, I know.)

So what do you say, Facebook? Post this for me? Please? If you do, I'll let you use my private information and pictures to be shown on ads in the timelines of all my friends.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

p.s. Do me a favor, all who read this. Try to share it or like it so I can see what is being allowed and what isn't. Thanks.

B.W.

Dear Bitchy Waiter

2012-01-11T17:40:00.000-05:00

Time for another installment of Dear Bitchy. I dug into the mailbag and found this question that perhaps I can shed some light on. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or email me to say hello. That's nice too.

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I work in a fine-dining restaurant in a major city. My boss is always telling me that I come off as arrogant to my coworkers. He says that I like to make people believe that I am smarter than they are. How do I make him understand that this isn’t really my intention, it’s just that I AM smarter than everyone else, and it’s just way too easy to show it? Should I dumb myself down? Should I pretend that I am a completely uneducated redneck in order to make my coworkers feel better about themselves? Please help!

S.B. Cleveland

Dear S.B.,

So, you are smarter than everyone you surround yourself with and people think you are arrogant because of it? I don't see the problem here. In no way should you dumb yourself down in order to make your co-workers feel better about themselves. Are these co-workers people that you care about or spend time with outside of work? Do any of them have anything to do with your life other than sharing a computer and tray jacks? If the answer to these questions is no, then who gives a fuck, sweetie? I say turn your diploma into a necklace and wear that bitch around your neck. Or have it printed onto fabric and then turn it into an apron. If your co-workers are all as dumb as a bag of hair (stolen from Scott), it's their issue and not yours. How about a simple "I'm With Stupid" t-shirt? You could wear it underneath your uniform and whenever someone accuses you of being arrogant, simply unbutton enough of your shirt to reveal your innermost thoughts.

Of course if it will make you feel better, you could bring your intelligence down a few pegs. When someone asks if you did your sidework, you can ask them "which side?" Or when the kitchen tells you that the spinach artichoke dip is 86'ed, tell them that it was table table 12 that wanted the dip, and you don't even have a table 86, duh. If you really want people to think you are stupid, ask to pick up a couple of hostess shifts. That ought to do it. The number one way you can make people at your job question your intelligence is to tell them that you asked me for advice. Once they find that out, it would go something like this:

Waiter: Man, that S.B. thinks she is so smart. She was telling me she watched the Republican debates last night.
Waitress: Like that makes her smart, God, I hate her.
Waiter: And then I saw her doing a crossword puzzle.
Waitress: What an arrogant bitch. Why doesn't she just do Word Search like everyone else?
Waiter: I know, right? And she doesn't use a calculator when she does her paper work.
Waitress: What a fucking show off!
Waiter: And she was telling me she liked one of Bitchy Waiter's post.
Waitress: Wait, she reads Bitchy Waiter? Maybe she's not as smart as we thought. Bitchy Waiter is a douchebag.

S.B. I hope this helps. I say embrace your big fat brain and make everyone at your job feel stupid around you. If they are stupid, it's not your fault. So go out there and quite some Friedrich Nietzche and carry around War and Peace. That way when they are talking about the most recent episode of Jersey Shore and talking about the latest issue of Star Magazine, you can rest assured that you are smarter then them and it just doesn't matter.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

You can email me here if you have a question for me.

Good Morning, Camel Toe

2012-01-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

I saw a case of camel toe yesterday and it brought this post to mind. Yes, it is a repeat, but even Camel Toe deserves another day in the sun every once in a while.

Of all the sights that have caught my eye, there's one I truly know that gives me frights and makes me cry: the dreaded camel toe.

Why oh why do women not bother to look in the mirror sometimes? Especially when that woman is about to get up on a stage in front of 60 people and have spotlights shining upon her? Wouldn't she want to make sure that every thing is as good as it can be? Her hair and make up spot on? Her outfit freshly pressed? Her black Lycra® pants not being sucked up into her vagina?

There was a performer at my job last month who although extremely talented, was upstaged by her guest star, Camel Toe. Camel Toe came up on stage with her and then it never left. It liked the attention and it was not going anywhere. We have a full length mirror in the dressing room, for Christ's sake. Use it. You know in those cartoons when someone is really bad on stage and a giant hook comes from offstage and pulls them off? How I wished for a giant pair of pliers to show up and pull those pants out of her pooch. Or you know how on Showtime at the Apollo Sandman Sims would come out and tap dance someone off the stage when they sucked? I needed Sandman to rise from the grave and tippy tap that twat away. Maybe the singer liked her Camel Toe. Maybe it gave her comfort in the same way that Linus from The Peanuts takes comfort from his blanket. After all, she did wear a black top with a line of sequins that went right down the front of her body ending at Camel Toe. Was this a way to draw attention to it? And in almost every song, she swayed her hips back and forth and to and fro making Camel Toe more prominent with every move. By the time the show was over she had almost graduated from Camel Toe to full on Moose Knuckle. It was distracting to me and I usually am not in the habit of looking at that particular part of the female anatomy.

I kept waiting for her to sing Midnight at the Oasis so she could utter the perfect lyrics, "Send your camel to bed" and if not to bed then to the Bronx fucking Zoo. Anywhere but my place of employment, please. At one point she sang a song about the Sahara Desert and I couldn't help but wonder if it was a shout out to her friend Camel Toe. Every time she took a sip of water, I questioned if the water was for her or Camel Toe. Was her Camel Toe one-humped or two? (It was two.)

After her last song, she ran off stage to where I was hanging out by the bar and she waited to return for the obligatory encore. I tried not to look at Camel Toe, but it was staring at me. "Hey there, Bitchy Waiter, down here! Look at me! I'm hot and sweaty, but happy as a clam. For I am Camel Toe! I'm thirsty."

"Ummm, good show," I muttered.

"Oh thanks, sweetie. I guess I'll go do one more song." She readied herself to return to the stage. She shook her hair out and took a big sip of water. And then she hiked her pants up so high that her Urethra Franklin cried out for some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. She closed her act and then came out and chatted with us as we cleaned up for the night. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and thanked me for everything. After she left, I told my boss, "She was really nice. It's gonna be difficult to write a blog about her camel toe." You know what though? It really wasn't that difficult at all.

Don't know what a camel toe is? This is what a camel toe is:

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Pall Mall Lady at Booth 21

2012-01-05T15:39:00.000-05:00

One of the worst things about waiting tables can be the people who sit in your station but oddly enough they can be one of the best things too. A few weeks ago, I had an amazingly cool lady sit in my booth. She was an older woman who was all decked out in that Old Lady attire that was totally in style when she bought it 25 years ago. She was with a younger couple and it seemed like they were taking Grandma out for dinner. When I told her that the special of the night was gnocchi, her eyes lit up and she suddenly became very animated. She hadn't spoken to me before that point, but she exclaimed, "I love gnocchi! That's what I want." Her voice was deep and gravely like if Lauren Bacall and Harvey Fierstein had a love child together. It sounded like she didn't just smoke Pall Malls, she gargled with them. Like if she coughed too hard, she'd poop out a cigarette or if she blew her nose, ashes would come out. "I grew up eating gnocchi so I know what good gnocchi is like. I hope this passes the muster." I looked over at the open kitchen and smiled at the cook who would be making it; Juan. Surely Juan had been making gnocchi ever since he was a little boy in Mexico. "Is it good?" she wanted to know. "Well, I like it a lot but I didn't grow up eating it," I said. "Hopefully ours can compare to the memory of what you had but if it doesn't I can promise you that I will serve it with a smile." She laughed at that and then the laugh turned into a disturbing and violent cough that ended up with her grabbing a napkin and spitting into it. "Goodbye, piece of lung," I thought.

Ten minutes later, I placed the bowl of gnocchi before her. "Is there anything else I can get for you right now?" She shook her head as she grabbed a utensil and focused on the food in front of her. "I'll be back in a few minutes and double check on everything." Already she had her first bite on the fork and was blowing it to cool it down. I stood across the dining room and watched her taste the gnocchi. She popped it into her mouth and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. It's usually a good sign when someone rolls their eyes after taking a bite. Occasionally it means they are going into anaphylactic shock because I forgot to tell the kitchen about their peanut allergy but most of the time it means they are loving the taste of the food. It was time for my two-minute check back.

"How do you like your gnocchi? Is it everything you wanted it to be and more?" I asked.

She took a look at me and in her gravely-Eileen Heckart voice she said, 'My dear, it is perfection. You made my night. Thank you." She put her hand on my wrist and gave it a squeeze. She smiled revealing yellow teeth and nicotine-stained gums. I smiled back at her.

"Good, I'm glad you like it. Enjoy your meal and let me know if there's anything else you need."

Sometimes waiting tables can give you varicose veins, a sore back and fallen arches, but every once in a while it gives you a gift. That night it felt good to give this woman something to smile about. Clearly she was already a happy woman out for dinner with her family but somehow I felt responsible for the smile on her face that night. When I cleared her plate, it was completely wiped clean. "I think you really liked it, huh?"

"I loved it! Thank you so much and please tell the chef how wonderful it was." I wondered how one says "The Pall Mall lady loved your gnocchi" in Spanish. "And you were a delight as well."

She didn't care for dessert or coffee because she said she didn't need anything else after such a perfect meal. They paid the check and left after one more brief coughing spell. As I wiped the table, I felt this weird sense of satisfaction that I don't get very often. That woman had a wonderful time in my station and she was completely fulfilled by the food and experience. She loved the gnocchi and my service. I felt good about it.

So thank you, Pall Mall Lady. You reminded me that servers have the ability to create new memories for their guests or bring back old memories and in your case, I think I did both. It's nice to know that she went home after having a wonderful night and I had something to do with it. I imagine that as she crawled into bed with her pack of cigarettes and thought about her day, it's possible that she thought of me and the plate of gnocchi I gave to her. Sometimes waiting tables can be not so horrible.

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The Bitchy Bermuda Triangle is Where I Work

2012-01-04T23:23:00.000-05:00

The restaurant I work in is sort of the Bermuda Triangle of dining establishments. Sometimes the people who work there just disappear and we never hear from them again. Every once in a while someone is fired and whisked away before we have our chance to say farewell. Case in point, Chef Tommie, who was the most foul mouthed chef I have ever worked with. (Favorite quote ever: "You know what my favorite thing to eat is? My wife's pussy.") But most often, people just vanish. Maybe the restaurant is in some weird centric vortex epicenter of Queens with a portal to another time but more than likely, people just decide to quit and they're too lazy to bother with a resignation bev nap so they just don't show up.

I worked with a girl for about three weeks. She was in grad school, really efficient, totally friendly and reliable. One day she just didn't show up. No call, no show, as they say. I suppose it's possible she caught a case of the "I don't give a shits" but isn't it also possible that she fell into the portal? The manager told me he thought it was odd that she came in the day before to get her paycheck when he knew she was on the schedule for the next day. Duh, manager. All signs point to "the bitch is quitting."

There have been several chefs who were only there for a few days. One was named Ryan and he was there just long enough for our one female co-worker to decide he was hot. As soon as that was determined, he was gone faster than a stick of butter at a Paula Deen pajama party. We never learned if he was fired or if he quit or if he too was sucked into the portal that carried him off to another land. Adam was our chef for a few months and one day he was gone. I heard he quit to be a waiter at a pizza place but it's entirely possible he was another victim of the Queens Bermuda Triangle. Our latest mysterious disappearance is that of Chef Nathan. He seemed so invested and ready to become an integral part of the team but after being closed for three days for the holidays, he never showed up again. Calls to him went unanswered. The last we knew, he was going to Connecticut for a few days. I have not been there since last week, so who knows if he ever showed up or not.

The question is "Why do people come and go so quickly there?" It could be that the restaurant is sitting on top of some ancient burial ground for Native Americans and by coming to work, we are continuously upsetting the ghosts who in turn make sure certain employees will never set foot inside the restaurant again. It could be that people find better jobs and decide it's time to move onward and upward. However, the most likely cause is that our manager doesn't bother establishing meaningful connections with any of his employees and they have no sense of duty, obligation or loyalty meaning that if it's too rainy outside and they don't have any bills to pay that week, they say 'fuck that shit, I ain't goin' in."

If you ever see that this blog or the Bitchy Waiter Facebook Page has been inactive for too long, you will know that I have followed the footsteps of those before me who were lured into the black hole of Queens and pulled into the darkest depths of unemployment never to return again. Then again, it's entirely possible that I am just too hungover to drag myself to the computer, so don't go all crazy or anything.

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The First Asshole Baby of 2012

2012-01-03T23:19:00.000-05:00

2012 wasn't even twenty-four hours old before I encountered the first demon spawn of the new year. I was at a New Year's Day party nursing my hangover with a glass or two of prosecco. The gathering was one for adults, I assumed, but lo and behold through the doors came a couple with child in tow; an adorable little boy of about two or three. I thought back to the resolution that I made earlier that morning: If a baby is in my station I will not immediately assume it's an asshole. I will wait three minutes before I determine its asshole-ness. I set the stopwatch on my phone for three minutes to pass before I determined if the child was an asshole or not and then I remembered that the baby was not in my station. Therefore, it was alright to deem it an asshole only twenty seconds into my time with it.

Why is this child here? There are thirty audits ranging from 25 to 50 years old at this party and there is one person who is clearly not the drinking age. Maybe the parents wanted to spend the first day of the new year with their child, but I certainly didn't. I decided I would pour myself another glass of prosecco and ignore the hell out of it. Easier said than done. It let out a piercing scream when someone tickled it. "He's been cooped up in the car for a few hours today'" laughed Dad. "He has a lot of energy to burn." Oh, then by all means bring it to a party then, that's freakin' perfect. No, no, don't take it to a park or something. Take it to a party where more than half the room needs mellow because they threw up the night before from ringing in the new year. This child was terrifying. I thought I had already seen the most disgusting thing I would possibly see all year when I watched a woman kiss a taxidermied Dick Clark at 12:01 but that was topped when I saw the kid put a cherry tomato in his mouth and then decide he didn't like it and spit it out and place it right back with the others. I knew it was going to do that as soon as I saw it pick up the tomato. "That's a pretty big bite there," I said to it. "Maybe you shouldn't put the whole thing in your mouth." It ignored me and crammed it into its mouth. "Just don't fucking choke on it, alright?" I thought as I scanned the room for its parents in case there was a need for the Heimlich.

Eventually, someone started to play with the child and got it all riled up. I continued to ignore it as much as I could. Suddenly, and without warning, the child ran towards me with his arms over his head. Was he going to hug me? Was he sensing I didn't like him and he wanted to win me over with affection? Was he going to shower me with kisses? No. He threw a coaster at me and then ran away screaming. Adorable. It was then confirmed I truly hated him.

I never once interacted with him and about two ungodly hours later he was still running and screaming and laughing all to the delight of absolutely no one. I sat in my chair and carried on the conversation with my friends when I heard the pounding of little feet coming at me. I turned just in time to see the kid hit my leg and run away to his mother who laughed, because it's just so fucking funny when your kid hits a stranger He did it again. She laughed again. He came at me a third time but this time I put my hand up and said, "No! More!" He did it anyway. I picked up the cheese knife and prepared for the fourth time. Either Mom saw I wasn't a kid person or she saw that I was now armed with a weapon because she kept him close from then on.

Eventually, the kid wound down. Maybe he was tired from all the running around or maybe that vodka I had slipped into his glass of Juicy Juice was finally starting to take affect, I dunno. Right when he was becoming tolerable is when the parents thought it was time to go home. It was almost like they were saying, "Well, he's done annoying you all, so our mission is complete." They wrapped the kid up in a coat and carried it out. The room breathed a collective sigh of "get me another drink." Only eighteen hours into 2012 and I had already had my nerves frazzled by a child. What was in store for me when I drag my ass back to work tomorrow? More annoying babies with parents who resolved for 2012 to let their kids be free spirits? Probably. Just remember: If a baby is in my station I will not immediately assume it's an asshole. I will wait three minutes before I determine its asshole-ness.

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Service Charge for Gay People?

2012-01-02T22:51:00.000-05:00

Oh what cost is it to be gay? Not only do the homosexuals of the world suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune they also have to learn to love shopping and decorating and learn to look fierce in skinny jeans. As if that didn't cost enough, now some restaurant in New York City thought it would be cute to put a surcharge on a check for customers being gay. Yes, a server named Theo actually added $0.01 onto a check with the message "you guys r gay." I scoured the Internet to try to figure out where this place was, but the only clue is at the bottom of the check where it says "Surf's up at the ranch." There is no place with the word "ranch" anywhere in the zip code of 10038. I think I know which restaurant it is, but I don't want to say it and then have people go to their website and get Theo fired. I just made that resolution yesterday, so no thanks.

Further examination makes me think that the two customers were not even gay, meaning that Theo was simply calling them gay because he must have the mind of a sixth grader. Why do I think the customers weren't gay? Because they ordered a Steel Reserve which is a beer and not a Cosmopolitan and they shared an order of French Fries. Gay men do not eat carbs; everyone knows that. Maybe Theo was a friend of theirs and he just thought it would be funny, but what if the two customers really were gay? How do you think they felt seeing that on their check? I'll tell you how I would feel. I would feel mother fucking insulted. First off, I am way more gay than one penny's worth. If I was going to be charged for being gay, it better be at least five or ten bucks. (On the pay-for-gay scale Zachary Quinto would pay $4.00, Ricky Martin would pay $8.75, Richard Simmons would be charged $15, Liberace would be charged $25 and Lispy Gay would have to take out a second mortgage on his home and hock his Department 56 Original Snow Village Collection in order to pay his fee. Yeah, Lispy Gay is that gay.)

It isn't the first time we have seen an errant message make it onto a check. A couple of years ago a server in England put on the check "Thank you, little fucker" referring to the bitchy-ass two-year old at the table. Oops. In all honesty, Theo probably did this as a joke to his friends and then his friends took a picture of it and sent it to Facebook and that was it. If it was real, those two customers would have called up the ACLU so quickly that it would have made Paul Lynde rise up from the dead, adjust his ascot and say "Hey, Sammy." But let this be a lesson to us all. If you have gay guys in your station, it is not okay to add a penny to their check. You add it to the credit card tip after they leave. Duh.

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It's 2012. Bitch Proud.

2012-01-01T16:10:00.004-05:00

Wipe the sleep out of your eyes and push those champagne bottles out of your bed, because it's 2012! Somewhere between my fourth champagne with Chambord and my first St. Germain vodka gimlet, 2011 let out its last heavy sigh and slipped into the history books. Looking back on 2011, I must admit it was a pretty good year for Bitchy Waiter. I got to be on CBS Sunday Morning as well as Dr. Phil and I managed to squeeze out 299 posts on the blog. Not too shabby. Even more impressive, I did not get fired all year long. It did, however, come very close a few weeks ago when my manager told me I was being very disrespectful for sweeping while we still had customers in the restaurant. Personally I thought I was being proactive by cleaning up the mess of bread crumbs left behind by a shaky senior citizen, but whatever. My manager went on to tell me that I was nowhere on the floor that night and made it impossible for guests to ask me for anything. The truth is, we only had 15 covers in over five hours so there weren't any fucking customers to ask me for anything. He sent me home early that night but we have since made up and are back to the cold distant unfeeling relationship we always had.

As we look at the new year ahead, we are all filled with hope because it's a clean slate; a chance to start fresh, to control alt delete, if you will. And we can't have a New Year's Day without at least throwing some resolutions up against the wall and seeing what sticks. I will try to keep a few things in mind as I drink my way through the next 365 days.

I will try to give my eye muscles a break by not rolling them so often when people ask me for stupid fucking shit like a martini with extra liquor.
If a baby is in my station I will not immediately assume it's an asshole. I will wait three minutes before I determine its asshole-ness.
Sometime in 2012, I will finagle a way to be on national television again on something like The Chew or Unique Eats. It will happen though, even if it means I have to go stand behind a news reporter with a cardboard signs that says www.TheBitchyWaiter.com on it.
I am going to try to become Superstar Employee of the Month even though everyone else at my job deserves it way before I do.
The next time a lady tells me she wants her burger cooked medium and then sends it back because it has a little pink in it, I will not mentally shove the burger down her throat. Instead, I will smile and tell her I will have it cooked medium-well and when she's not looking I will take a picture of her with my cell phone and submit the photo to my Facebook page with the caption of "Stupid Fucking Bitch."
I will appreciate every shift meal I get because I know there are children in Africa who would love to eat a bowlful of leftover pasta with corn and skate that sat under the warmer so long that it grew its own skin.
I will do The Bitchy Waiter Show in New York City and invite everyone to come see me bitch live and in person.
This year, I will try to wash my apron.
I will sell some more of my Bitch Proud bracelets.
Maybe in 2012 I won't manage to get a server fired just because the server was a rude asshole.
I am going to attempt to memorize what kind of scotch we serve so that I don't always have to go ask the bartender. Seriously, I have a mental block with that liquor.
I am going to finally figure out a cocktail to make using that Bubblegum Vodka I got 366 days ago.
If the world ends (again) this year, I will try to be first in line for the party express bus to hell where I know most of you will be joining me.
I will marry my boyfriend.
Most importantly, I resolve to keep writing as often as I can. This blog makes me happy and even if it never goes further than this, it is a great thing for me. I thank you for reading it and I love when you email or comment or suggest it to your friends. Thank you.

So what about you? Do you have a resolution for 2012? Let me know. Leave a comment, even if it's just to say "Happy New Year, you tired ass bitch."

Happy New Year and here's to a great 2012!

How To Open a Bottle Of Champagne

2011-12-31T18:22:00.000-05:00

I hope you have your champagne chilling because in just a few hours it will be time to obligatorily take a sip and then kiss who ever you are dating, married to or just happen to be standing next to at midnight. So many people love the taste of champagne but only have it on special occasions. I say fuck that. Have it whenever you want it. About two weeks ago, I made hamburgers for dinner and served it with a bottle of fine sparkling wine. It really complimented the Costco meat patties, Miracle Whip and American cheese. Opening a bottle of champagne takes a bit of practice so I thought I would share with you my immense experience of opening them. And before you think I am a total alcoholic (I am), this experience comes from six years as a brunch server where I opened about twenty bottles a day. Most people think that successfully opening bottle of champagne means it spews out all over the place in a premature ejaculation kind of way. Not cool though. Here is the right way to open a bottle of champagne:

Take off that foil crap that is all around the cork. Use your teeth if you have to.
Now you want to remove that wire cage thing. You have to put your thumb over the cork in case the pressure has built up and it's ready to pop. Unless you shook the bottle too much, it's probably fine. Just don't point the bottle at your nether regions or eyes. Twist the wire counter-clockwise six half rotations and then take it off. Or leave it on. Whatever.
Now you can put a towel over it in prep to remove the cork. I don't do that though because I'm a pro. Grip the cork and now start twisting the bottle. Not the cork. The bottle. Kinda pull it at the same time and you should feel it start to loosen and rise from the bottle.
Keep control of the cork even though it's totally tempting to shoot that bitch at somebody. Don't do it. It really brings down a party when someone actually loses an eye. You want to let it release with a soft "poofy" noise. Like the sound a fart makes when you think it's going to be silent, but it's not. You don't want that loud pop.
It's open. Pour that baby into a beer bong and go to town.

The movies always show people popping the cork and then laughing as the champagne spills all over the place. What they don't show is what a pain in the ass it is to clean up all that champagne. They also don't show me sitting in the corner at the end of the night all pissed off because we are out of champagne because half of it is on the fucking floor.

Happy New Year!! Tweet this for good luck.

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