Reasons You Didn’t Get The Job: Reason #21 – You Came In For Your Interview Through The Backdoor. BEFORE We Were Open For Business.

February 4, 2007

We open our restaurant at 4:30pm every day except for Sunday where we open at noon. Someone obviously did not get the memo (or learn how to read signs on the front door).

At about 3:50pm last week, a disheveled woman in her early-40’s came in through the backdoor as we were loading food and drinks from the supplier’s trucks. We thought she was a girlfriend of one of the chefs or truck drivers.

Apparently, the woman saw all of us working out back and decided this was as good a time as any to pop on in and ask, no…yell, for a manager.

Her: “Are ya’ll HIRING!?”
One of our chefs: “Uhh…who are you?”
Her: “Is there a manager here?”
Chef: “Yuki!”

In walks Yuki, our manager for the day. He gives the woman a quick lookover and informs her that we are, in fact, not hiring. She insists on filling out an application anyway.

It takes the woman almost an hour to fill the thing out (comparitively, it took me and many fellow employees about 15 minutes to fill in every box). She then walks out (with our pen in hand, mind you) and we never hear from her again.

It’s probably because Yuki put a big “NOOOOO!!!!!” on the top of her application.


Ma’am, We All Didn’t Need To Know That You Were, In Fact, A Prostitute.

February 1, 2007

I have some very exciting news coming up by the end of this month. Not Earth-shattering news, but really good news nonetheless. That, and I’ll hit 60,000 visitors total. For only being up a little over 5 months, that’s pretty good. As your reward, the drunken ramblings of a woman that comes in our restaurant every so often.

A woman in her late 30’s, early 40’s comes into our restaurant quite a bit. She gets excessively drunk and acts like a complete douche. The only reason we haven’t banned her from the place is because she always orders $50+ of food at one time and because she tips rather well.

She also lets little secrets slip about her personal life that we would otherwise not need to know, nor want to know.

For example:

Her: “Yea…when my husband met me, I was working as a prostitute. He picked me up and we’ve been together e’er since!”

Her: “Man, I got so much money, I don’t know what to do w’ it.”
Our Bartender: “How’d you get all that money?”
Her: “‘Cause I suck a mean…”
Our Bartender: “That’s quite alright, ma’am.”

Her: “You think these teeth get all pearly white on their own.”
Our Bartender: “Ummm…what?”
Her: “To get this white, you gots to…”
Our Bartender: “Whoa whoa whoa!”

Her: “I have a girl that’s about your age.”
Our Bartender: “But…that’s impossible…that would make you how old when you had h…”
Her: “12.”
Our Bartender: “Wow.”
Her: “Yea. Wow.”

And so on and so forth.

Sorry I Don’t Have A Vagina, Sir.

January 10, 2007

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.

Real Mature, Mr. and Mrs. Douchebag.

December 3, 2006

So I’m sitting next to Kelsey, one of my co-workers, near the front entrance because it’s so slow. Kelsey gets up and this one dude passes me and farts right as his ass is eye-level with me. He then proceeds to start laughing.

Me: “Well screw you too, sir.”
Him: (Stops laughing)

His lady-friend or wife is giving me the evil eye. I look her straight in the eye and say:

Me: “How old is that guy? Like 40 frickin’ years old? And he’s farting in 21 year old’s face? Real frickin mature, guy. Real frickin’ mature.”

His lady-friend/wife is still giving me the evil eye as our hostess at the podium is cracking up. When they leave she asks me how I knew he did it on purpose.

Me: “Well, for one, he frickin’ laughed. Second, you could tell in the way it came out. That fart came out pretty forcefully COINCIDENTALLY right where my face was. You can tell the fart’s on purpose if it’s THAT frickin’ forceful.”

I’ve been informed I’m going to get made fun of for weeks because of this. Screw that douche. Screw him and his ugly wife.

It’s Official: Cocaine And Restaurants Do Not Mix.

December 2, 2006

A girl that was featured in Maxim’s 100 Hottest Girls Next Door came into our restaurant the other day. One of my co-workers informed me that she, and all of the people she was with liked to snort coke.

Great. Just what we need. Luckily, one of the other waiters, Skyler, got the table. It was all going pretty smoothly for him until the girl asked him “Do you like boobs?”

Skyler: “Uh…yea…sure.”
Maxim Girl: “Then HERE!”

She then proceeded to lift her shirt up and show her boobs (not boobs in bra…boobs) to the entire table and Skyler. Everyone was freaking out and laughing INCLUDING her boyfriend.

If my girlfriend every tried to pull some crap like that, I’d buy a bottle of the most expensive wine,¬†ask for the check before it got there, tell the waiter to give it to my girlfriend and run. But hey, that’s just me.

I’m Thankful For All The Idiots That Come Into My Restaurant.

November 24, 2006

This woman came in the night before Thanksgiving with a very sour look on her face. She went up to the bartender/manager Yuki and said “I’m here to pick up my to-go order. Where is it?”

Yuki: “Umm…ma’am…we haven’t gotten a to-go order yet tonight.”
Woman: “I gave you my name, address and phone number.”
Yuki: “Alright. I’ll go check and see if anyone took your order and didn’t tell me.”

Sure enough, no one had taken a to-go order for this woman. Yuki even checked the caller ID in front of her, but she was not convinced.

Woman: “I’m in the middle of a MILLION things and all my family wanted was some SUSHI!”
Yuki: “Okay, ma’am…well…here’s a sushi menu if you’d like to order some sushi right…”
Woman: “Whatever!”

It was then that Yuki got the idea to ask the woman:

Yuki: “Did you call another restaurant by the name of [another restaurant]?”
Woman: “What do you mean ‘another restaurant’? Isn’t this [another restaurant]?”
Yuki: “No. This is [our restaurant].”
Woman: “Oh.”

I wouldn’t have had a problem with the lady mixing up the stores, but the arrogant-and-proud-of-it attitude is what made this woman a bitch. A bitch with a family that probably goes hungry quite hungry.

You Don’t Have To Go Pee, Amanda.

November 13, 2006

At work, we have this system to where the first server that clocks in gets the first table, the second server gets the second, etc… It’s a rotation sort of thing.

So this server, Amanda, sees me walking up to the building, literally starts sprinting and butts her way to the computer so she can clock in a few seconds before me all the while yelling “Sorry, Ryan, I gotta pee!”

I clock in, start my opening side work and see her at the bar talking to my manager, April.

Me: “I thought you had to go pee, Amanda.”
Amanda: “I already did.”
Me: “No you didn’t. You just wanted the first table.”
Amanda: “I went PEE Ryan!”
Me: “I frickin’ hate you.”

Long story short: Amanda is a jerk and next time I see her walking up to the restaurant, I’m going to drop everything and launch into a sprint, punch her in the back of the head and clock in before she has a chance to figure out what hit her.