Every Time A Black Person Calls Me Racist, An Angel Gets Its Wings.

February 7, 2007

Tonight, a family of four came in. We have community tables that seat up to about 10. There was a family of four sitting on one side of the table and I sat the four menus on the other four table settings.

This, of course, is a cardinal sin against black people.

Black Woman: “Why can’t we get our o’n table!?”
Me: “Well…ma’am…this is how the seating works. It’s like a community table and the chef just comes out, cooks everyone’s food at the same…”
Black Woman: “You can’t tell us w’ere we can and can’t sit! You don’ hafta say dat ’cause we’s black.”
Me: “Uh…I wasn’t…I was just saying that…”
Black Woman: “I’ve haff a min’ to file a discrimination suit ‘gainst ya.”
Me: “Is that a joke?”
Black Woman: “No.”
Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was a big joke.”

Why is it some black people feel entitled to special treatment? Oh, that’s right…because of all those slaves I’ve owned and all those Million Man Marches I’ve demonstrated against. That and I strangled Martin Luther King Jr to death with my own two hands.

And why is it when they don’t receive that special treatment they feel it is me “holding them down”. People, that’s how our restaurant works. It’s not racism or discrimination.

So I seat them, smile politely, and take their drink and dinner orders. I tell them that because they wanted a seperate table, it will take a little longer for a chef to come out.

Black Woman: “What fo’?”
Me: “Well, we only have two chefs on and you’re the third table to be sat. If you’d like your food a little quicker, you can sit at the table that I was showing you earlier.”
Black Woman: “But why is it gonna take longa fo’ us?”
Me: “Okay. You’re the third table. There’s two chefs. They can only cook one table at a time. That’s why we have large community tables that can hold eight people…so everyone gets their food faster.”
Black Woman: “Whate’er.”

Obviously, there’s no place for logic in a brain so filled with racism-paranoia and ignorance.

As I was walking away from the table, I heard the little girl at the table I tried to seat the black people at when they came in, point at the black family and say (within earshot of the black family of four), “Daddy, do they hate us?”

Cue laughter for me and the white family. Cue embarassment for the black family.

After the dinner, I brought them the check. I was polite and helpful throughout the entire dinner, even taking time away from other tables to show the black father how to use his chopsticks and getting them every to-go sauce they could ever need. I wanted to be overly-nice to this black family to prove a point to myself.

See, to many readers of this site, my stories could be complete horseshit. I could be the worst server in the world and could just be using that to fish for customers to get pissed so I have material to work with.

But I’m neither. I’m a decent server and a good guy. And I wanted proof that, regardless or my attitude and quality of service, I was going to get stiffed on my tip by a black family of four that is just looking for a way to “get back at the man” for all those things white people did to blacks before I was even conceived.

So out comes the bill: $110.98. Pretty hefty bill for four people. The boyfriend of the black woman that argued with me earlier gave me $115 and sad, verbatim, “Keep the change as your tip.” My fate was sealed. They were going to leave me a $4 tip on over $110 worth of food. That’s about a 3% tip on some damn good service.

It was here that I. Just. Lost it.

I looked the boyfriend in the eye and asked him point-blank, “Do you want your four-dollar tip back?”

He didn’t respond. In fact, I said it so loudly, patrons at the bar looked over and started giving the man dissapointed looks. He looked a little embarassed, but instead of facing it like a man, he took the path of a coward and walked out the door.

Then the black woman with whom I argued passed me and I said even louder, “Do you WANT your FOUR-DOLLAR TIP BACK.” She replied, “No” and kept on walking.

It was then that I stared in the eyes of the father with whom I had taught to use chopsticks. I looked at him, beet-red in the face, and asked just as loudly, “Would you like the FOUR-DOLLAR TIP BACK. YOU GUYS OBVIOUSLY NEED IT.” He just frowned and kept on walking.

Finally, the mother walked by me. I just stared at her, still beet-red, still furious. I didn’t say a word to her until she was so close she could hear my louder-than-normal heart rate. In a whsiper, I said:

Me: “How dare you.”
Her: “What?”
Me: “How dare you and your family.”

And then she as well walked out the door.

It was a slower-than-usual night and they wouldn’t have made that much of a difference if they had, indeed, tipped me well. But it’s ignorance and downright social idiocy that gets my blood boiling.

My manager told me after they left that the father came back in looking for me. I saw him open the door, but I didn’t want to look at him again. I knew I couldn’t hide the obvious disgust from my face.

Don’t pin the strained relationship between whites and blacks in this country solely on white people. True, it is mostly past white’s faults that blacks are still at a level of inferiority economically, socially and academically in this country. But there are those still in this country that revel in the strained relationship and feed that beast the ignorance and stupidity it so craves.

If they treat me, a white man that put forth an effort to provide great service to them, with this kind of disrespect how do they treat people the way they treated me?


If You’re Going To Talk To Your Mistress, Do It Somewhere Classier Than Our Bathroom.

January 12, 2007

As I walk into the bathroom, I hear someone talking very excitedly into the phone in the closed-door stall. Curious, I listen in as I use the urinal.

Him: “Listen, baby, I’m here with my wife. How’s an hour sound?…Okay…Yea…Yea…No, that won’t work…Yea!…Okay, see you then.”

The look he gave me as he walked out of the stall and saw me washing my hands was one of first confusion and then fear. My expression nearly matched his as I realized this was the same man who just minutes ago I was serving onion soup and two Philadelphia sushi rolls to. I didn’t know this dude was my customer.

For the rest of the meal, the knot in my stomach made its way up into my throat as I saw this man affectionately kiss his wife, hold her hand with his left and feed his infant daughter steamed rice and cheerios with his right. I wonder if she had any idea. I wonder if their marriage was any good. I wonder if they laid in bed until 2 in the morning talking like my girlfriend and I do. I wonder if when he came back to the house he’d made a home, he showered before kissing his wife hello.

As they left, I heard the man say, “Okay, honey. I’ll catch up with you two at the house. I’ve gotta help Donald with something with his car.” She kissed him, smiled and walked out the front door and into her car. He stayed at the bar a few extra minutes and then jumped into his own car. I guess he’d thought ahead and brought two.

He was smiling too.

I Was Only Admiring The Shotguns On Your Son’s T-Shirt.

January 2, 2007

Hey, jackasses. If you wear dumbass t-shirts, prepare to get dumbass looks thrown your way.

We’re closing up for the night and this 13 year old kid walks by. My manager, April, points out the fact that he’s got “guns all over his shirt”. What?

Sure enough, the kid is wearing a white shirt with black shotguns all over it, what looked to be drawn-on blood stains with the words “Big Dog” scrawled on the back. The child is also severely (and dangerously) overweight. As if this kid needs more of a complexity problem and deeper self-confidence issues at his age, he draws more attention to himself than he should with a shirt like that.

And not only that, I’m guessing that the child wasn’t just born with a love for 1) provocative shirts and 2) shotguns. I’m guessing this child was brought up to think this was an appropriate shirt to wear anywhere where people other than your redneck family can see you.

So as I’m sweeping, I look over at this kid a couple of times to “admire” his shirt when I get his father coming over asking if “e’rything is allll righ?”

Me: “Yes, sir.”
Him: “Well den don’t be givin’ my son da evil aye, kay?”
Me: “Yes, sir. No evil aye.”
Him: “Alrigh den.”

No evil aye. None.

If It’s So Important, Why Don’t You Chime In As Well?

December 9, 2006

At our restaurant, we sing “Happy Birthday” if a family tells us it’s someone at their table’s birthday. Last night, a mom came up to me and secretly told me so I could surprise her daughter. That’s cool, I kind of like singing the song.

So I get to the table and start singing when no one (and I mean not a single person) at the table were singing. I get to about the second “Happy birthday to you…” when I just stop and try and get the rest of the family into the song with: “Alright, guys…I don’t think this is gonna work. How ’bout we all sing, okay?”

This doesn’t sit well at all with the mother who is furious. So I start again and again, no one is singing. I stop, again, and say, again, “C’mon guys…let’s all sing ‘Happy Birthday’!”

Now the parents arms are crossed and the teenage daughter is pleading that people sing “Happy Birthday” with me because of her embarassment. The mom just stares at me as I start it up one more time. Again, no one is singing.

So I stop mid-song, say “Sorry guys…I thought you wanted to sing ‘Happy Birthday'”, and proceed to walk away. I hope they told the manager, she’d get a kick out of it.

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.

Hey Douchebag, If It’s Cold At Your House, It’s Gonna Be Cold At The Restaurant.

November 21, 2006

Backstory: I’m driving to work today at 3:30pm and I pass a bank telling me it’s 56 degrees. That’s in the afternoon. End of backstory.

A family walks in and complains that it’s “too dang cold in this here restaurant”. They then order a round of drinks and leave before the drinks get out to them because “it’s too cold for their baby and it was cold when they came last time”.

Your complaint may have been valid, sir, if you were wearing something other than A FRICKIN’ T-SHIRT AND JEAN SHORTS.

Firstly, anyone wearing jorts should not be taken seriously. Secondly, anyone that wears shorts and a t-shirt out and dresses their small child as if it were the middle of August does not deserve to even have a child to dress wrong.

The mom, of course, was wearing a skirt and a blouse.

Listen, Kid. Don’t Act Like A Lion And There Won’t Be A Problem.

November 14, 2006

I’m walking to the back with about five plates in my hands when a kid, sitting backwards in his chair, looks at me and literally lunges in his chair at me while yelling “RAWRRRRRRRR!”

I, of course, jump a little because I don’t usually stare or pay attention to little boys as I’m walking to the kitchen. As a result, a plate comes off my stack and onto the little kid’s head.

The dad is cracking up. The mom is furious:

Mom: “How dare you spill plates on my son’s head. His skull is very fragile!”
Me: “Ma’am, your son surprised me by lunging at me in his seat.”
Mom: “So? Do you really think he’s going to hurt you?”

At this I snapped my finger in her face and she flinched.

Me: “Did you think I was going to hurt you?”

Want to know why I can do this? Because when there’s a couple or a family, the men pay the bill 90% of the time. At least.

P.S. He gave me a 20% tip.