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 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.

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.

Little People, Big World.

December 29, 2006

Sometimes, I’m the idiot.

Tonight was incredibly fast and as a result, didn’t have time to think before I said or did things. I was acting on pure instinct and ritual, which with someone like me (see: jackass) is not a good thing.

I was sat a couple. The man was a literal dwarf. He stood three feet high and his feet hung off the chair. The only reason I didn’t think he was a child was because he had 1) the diction of a thirty-year old and 2) a beard.

So I’m running around and I notice the guy is running out of Sprite. I sprint through the server’s hallway, get him a Sprite on my way to another table and drop it off. What I said as I dropped off the drink was neither intentional nor in mean spirit, but for some ungodly, unneccessary reason, in my brain of brains, I decided it would be a good idea to tag on a “Here you go, big guy” to the drop-off of the drink.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

I didn’t turn around as I walked away. All I could think was that I had bought at least six or seven one-way tickets to Hell with that little comment and I didn’t even do it on purpose.

For the rest of their time there, I made sure to put that guy’s needs above everyone else’s as I tried to recoup some sort of dignity from calling the ONLY FRICKIN’ LITTLE PERSON I’VE SERVED “big guy”.

There’s a special circle in Hell designed for people like me.

My Mom Is Such A Pain Too, Man.

December 13, 2006

Last night this couple came in. The guy couldn’t have been younger than 25 and the woman looked about the same age.

So in the middle of the meal, I see the guy pull his phone out and start talking kind of loudly into it. The woman is looking around very awkwardly and gets up to use the restroom. As I walk by, I hear the guy say, “Yea, Mom…I’ll be home at 11. Gosh, you’re such a pain!”

The guy said “Gosh, you’re such a pain.” To his mother.

It was then that I saw the woman he was with come out of the bathroom, give him a hug (without a kiss) and walk away. Another date ruined by curfew, dude. My little brother knows exactly how you feel.

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.