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?


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.

There’s No Use Crying Over A Spilt Child.

December 28, 2006

Christmas break at a restaurant is a bitch.

The other night, a child was zooming around my restaurant in those frickin’ roller-blade/sneaker combinations and happened to zoom RIGHT INTO ME as I was carrying a couple of soups. Of course some of the soups spilled on my Happy Coat (the male version of the Kimono) but the worse part is, the kid fell down, started crying and BEGAN TO FRICKING POINT AT ME.

Now, for those of you that have never been in an awkward situation as this, a small, sobbing child pointing at you only magnifies what is a downright uncomfortable situation.

The mother comes over and exclaims, “What in the world did you do?” Of course the mom thinks it’s all my fault and not her daughter’s. Of course the big, bad waiter is to blame and not your little shit with the unneccessary wheels on her shoes. At this point, all I can say to defend myself is, “Ma’am, I’m sorry…but she ran into me.”

Incredulous, the mother responded with a “But my daughter would NEVER do something like that”, scooped the child up in her arms and went back to the table.

Ma’am, is your child so frickin’ pristine that she’d never ACCIDENTALLY run into someone. God forbid her shit doesn’t smell like roses or else you’d think she had the Devil himself inside her.

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.

Even An Eight Year Old Should Be Able To Grasp The Basic Rules Of Physics.

December 4, 2006

Before I begin, let me say that I am stoked that the BCS didn’t screw the SEC two years in a row.

So last Saturday night, this parent asked for a styrofoam cup for her child because 1) she was afraid he’d spill it and 2) he liked the color white more than the clear cups we have. This kind of creeped me out because the kid was 1) eight years old and 2) sitting in a booster seat. Did anyone else sit in booster seats in third grade?

Anyway, I brought the kid his coke in the styrofoam cup and he proceeds to TAKE THE LID OFF AND POUR SOME OF IT ON HIS PLATE. I’ll let that sit for a minute.

He then proceeds to get a pouty face and the mom laughs this douchebag laugh as she says “Oh, goodness. Can we have another cup please? He seems to have spilt his.”

He SEEMS to have spilt his? No, lady. There’s no frickin SEEM about it. Your kid just opened the cup up and poured it all over his plate. Where’s the fucking SEEM? Where?!

So I brought him back a new cup and ten minutes later he was stabbing the cup with his chopsticks. Of course the cup sprung a leak and the kid went into full-blown pout. A tear rolled down his frickin’ cheek.

Mom: “Oh, dear. Can we have another drink please? He seems to have accidentally poked his cup.”

Accidentally? Yea…and the Nazis “accidentally” killed 6 million Jews. Screw you, lady.

So It IS The Parent’s Fault.

November 28, 2006

Last night at work, there was this little douchebag kid who looked like he’d been homeschooled by an equally douche-y mom. (Not to say homeschooled kids are bad as I have a really good friend who was homeschooled from kindergarten to 5th or 6th grade and he’s cool as hell).

Anyway, this kid had little to no social skills and went absolutely crazy when he downed his first soda. Does anyone remember in “The Simpsons” when Bart gives Flanders’ kids some pixie sticks and they taste sugar for the first time? That’s what this kid was like. Except it wasn’t a cartoon and I couldn’t punch this mom in the face like Homer does to Flanders. Fucking cartoons.

A little explanation: At our restaurant, the chefs come out to the tables and grill right in front of you. We only had two chefs last night to cook for the tables and there were three servers, each with one table. You do the frickin’ math. And guess who was odd man out? Yea. So they’re waiting, and I’m apologizing to everyone at the table about the wait and explaining the situation when this kid, out of nowhere, looks me square in the eye and asks:

Him: “Yes, waiter. When exactly will our chef be coming out?”
Me: “Oh, well…I’m sorry, but like I said…there’s only two chefs and as you can see, there’s three…”
Him: “I didn’t ask for excuses.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Him: “Are we going to have to cook this meal ourselves?”

I look at the mom, but she has a look on her face like she agrees with this little punk. Well screw her too. This kid couldn’t have been older than eight years old. I’m not gonna take crap from someone a decade and a half younger than me.

Me: “Ma’am…”
Her: “When is our chef coming out?”
Me: “Goodbye.”

Talking back is a frickin’ learned behavior and it seems this kid had his fill of homework from his overly-bitchy mother. 

After the chef came out and the kid had eaten his fill, he asked for another soda. The mom didn’t want him having sugar or caffeine, so she asked he have a Diet Coke. After emptying about six packets of sugar into that kid’s cup, I gladly obliged.

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.