Sorry I Don’t Have A Vagina, Sir.

Last week this douche comes in forty minutes late for his reservation demanding he and his party of twelve be seated immediately. But not until he told our hostess, Liz, how he felt about her.

Him: “What’s up, sweet cheeks?”
Liz: “Excuse me?”
Him: “You heard me.”

So he sits down and not five minutes into my serving, he asks to speak with a manager.

Him: “If I don’t get a new server soon, my party and I are leaving.”
Manager: “Umm…is something the matter?”
Him: “You heard me.”

With that exchange, April (the manager) informs me what’s up and that she’s going to have to give the party to Laisay (pronounced Lay-Say). As Laisay’s about to take the table, Liz informs Laisay and I of this guy’s sexist exchange with her.

Not only that, but this guy’s been in our restaurant before and refused to be waited on by a dude. He literally pitches a fit until he gets a female server that he can sexually harass. Management just caves because he’s a regular and spends a lot of money.

So April gives me the choice: Take the guy and endure his abuse or give him to Laisay. Screw him. It’s a party of 6 or more so I can automatically tip them 18% AND I hate creepies. That, and Laisay’s a cool chick and doesn’t deserve his sexual harassment.

I go back over to the table, look the guy in the eye and say, “I’m sorry that I’m not serving up to your level of standard, sir. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.” No smile. No wisecrack. No look. I said it with a straight face and a level gaze. With trepidation in his voice and a nervous smile, he replies, “Oh…I’m sorry…I…well…I…” and trailed off.

It has begun.

From that moment on, I did everything above and beyond the call of duty. Drinks were refilled before they got below halfway. I checked on every person at that table at least every ten minutes. Of course, this guy found some way to still fuck with me.

As their appetizers, the party of twelve put in seven seperate sushi orders. When I brought each one to the table, I memorized what was on the plate (since sushi rolls all look the frickin’ same) so as to make it easier for me to find out who had what.

Me: “Okay. Who had the three pieces of white tuna and the California roll?”
Him: “Do you really expect allof us to remember what we ordered seperately?”
Me: “Yea. Kind of.”
Everyone else at the table: Hahahahahahahaha! (At him.)

Everyone’s on my side. WHAT NOW?

At the end of the meal, without any more incidents, the guy has the balls to go up to my manager and (drunkenly) complain about me. I asked April what he said. She had no idea and just nodded when appropriate. As he left, his last words were:

Him: “I’m not coming back here until this is fixed!”
April: “Well, I guess we won’t see you for a little while then.”

Until whatis fixed? We stop letting men serve tables? Try “Hooters” across the parking lot, sir. They’re use to the harassment.

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