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?


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!”
Her: “YUKI! YUKI! WHERE ARE YOU!?”

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.


Chicks Don’t Dig Cheap Guys. Who Knew?

January 23, 2007

Guys. Stop being so cheap and maybe you’ll get invited back to her place.

Me: “Here’s your bill, sir.”
The Boyfriend: “Uh…ok…here you go. Keep the change.”
Me: (Looking inside and finding $70 on a $67.63 bill) “Was there something wrong with the service, sir?”
The Boyfriend: (Looking around nervously) “Uh…no…why?”
Me: “Because you only left me a 2 dollar tip.”
The Girlfriend: “You did what?! (Looking at me) I’m a waitress over at the Red Lobster down the street so I’m really sorry about him. Here you go. (Hands me a ten dollar bill to go with The Boyfriend’s tip).

(A few seconds later, they get up to leave).

The Boyfriend: “Listen…I’m…”
The Girlfriend: “Just drive me home.”

P.S. I’ve heard excuses regarding this story in terms of maybe the guy was broke and the girlfriend picked the restaurant, etc… Well, for starters, the guy ate the second-most expensive meal on the menu and the girl had the second-cheapest. The guy also ordered three drinks and the girl had water and an un-sweet tea. No excuses.

DIGG This!


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.


You Women And Your Frickin’ Checks.

December 6, 2006

Last night I had a couple at the sushi bar that was, for the most part, very nice and very patient about the fact that there was only one sushi chef and he had a bunch of to-go orders and that they wouldn’t get their food for a little while.

I gave them their bill (I put it in the frickin’ middle of the couple) and ran the credit card. When I went to give them their bill back to sign for it, that’s when things turned not so nice. See, I put the bill in front of the guy:

Her: “Hey! How do you know it’s not MY credit card?”
Me: “Because his picture and name are on it.”
Her: “Well…uh…that’s no excuse.”

What? When you flunked out of 10th grade, didn’t the teacher give you the paper with YOUR name on it deducing that it was…well…YOURS? When you’re going 30 over the speed limit in your BMW that Mommy and Daddy bought you, doesn’t the policeman (sorry, police-person) see your driver’s license as valid because your 1) name and 2) picture are on it? Then shut up and let me give the man back his credit card.

Ryan A. Ward, you have a bitchy girlfriend/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.


The Glass Isn’t Empty, Lady.

November 27, 2006

Don’t all of you servers hate it when you’re running around and some fatass lady thinks that her glass of sweet tea isn’t full enough and wants you to get her a brand-new one when she damn well knows that glass is about as full as it can get.

Last week, I had a woman complain that she had been sitting at her table with an empty glass for 15 minutes and demanded that I “get her a brand new glass of sweet tea this instant!”

Here’s a diagram to show you just how “empty” her glass was:

glass_full

This is no exaggeration. The bitch’s glass was over 80% full. When I explained to her that whenever I would walk by, I saw an empty glass and didn’t think she needed a new drink she said, verbatim:

“Well, I just figured you could read my mind.”

If that’s not the definition of an idiot, I don’t know what is.