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!”

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.

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.

Do You Want It Room Temperature Or Not?

December 1, 2006

This story was told to me by my roommate Mike last night. He writes and runs one of the links to the right (www.ieatpeople.com). Check him out.

He was telling me about how he was serving this table of women a few years back and one of them asked for “room temperature water but with frozen ice in it”.

Mike: “Uh…so…room temperature water…with COLD ice?”
Her: “Yes. Make sure that water is ROOM TEMPERATURE.”

He then looked her straight in the eye and just poured the water from the pitcher he was holding in his hand.

Her: “Wha wha wha?! What are you doing? This isn’t room temperature water!”
Mike: “Well…I mean…the ice is going to make the water turn this way in just a few…”
Her: “I want to speak to the manager RIGHT. NOW.”
The Manager: “Is there a problem?”
Her: “Yes. I asked for room temperature water with ice.”
The Manager: “Umm…uh…ma’am, the ice is going to make the water…”
Her: “Whatever!”

It’s surprising the woman didn’t want her food cooked at room temperature and then heated up in the microwave for a few minutes. What is it with old women and physics?

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.

Dear Everyone That Worked At The Restaurant The Night of November 4th,

November 7, 2006

You set in motion quite the 21st birthday party:

8:59pm: We don’t close for another hour and a half. My manager April sees it start to get slow and gives me my first birthday shot. It’s a double.

9:03pm: Our bartender Mary was in the bathroom and didn’t see April pour my first shot.

9:04pm: I am two shots into my birthday. It is also a double.

9:10pm: It’s still slow and me, April and Mary all down a shot. Again, a double.

9:12pm: It starts to pick up.

9:13pm: It is officially “busy”.

9:27pm: I’m a few minutes into first table since taking three shots in about ten minutes when two things run through my mind. 1) I haven’t eaten a substantial amount since lunch. 2) I just took three double-shots.

9:30pm: I start eating some rice when I’m informed that I have a second table.

9:31pm: Damn.

9:34pm: One of my tables finds out it’s my birthday and buys me a shot.

9:35pm: Double damn.

9:46pm: My co-workers convince me to make a call to Hooters and order 80 dollars worth of wings, shrimp and ranch dipping sauce. They all pitch in, of course.

9:52pm: I go to pick up said Hooters while STILL ON THE CLOCK.

10:01pm: I come back to the restaurant to realize that I still have a table. They’re the ones that got me my birthday shot, so they’re pretty frickin’ drunk.

10:03pm: I give the food from Hooters to April who is coincidentally much hotter than I remember her four double-shots ago.

10:04pm: So is Mary.

10:16pm: I close out my last table pretty buzzed. An empty stomach plus an irregular drinker multiplied by running around and getting dizzy does not make for a good conclusion.

10:31pm: I finish all my closing work and am literally salivating at the thought of my Hooters.

10:32pm: I dig in to my wings with no regard to Kelsey who is splitting some of the wings with me.

10:34pm: I lock eyes with Kelsey and decide to let her have the rest of her wings.

10:35pm: I am handed a fifth drink by Mary. I tear back into the wings.

10:39pm: Everyone is drinking and eating wings at this point. Kelsey is none the wiser.

11:02pm: I am five shots and three White Russians into my birthday. 21st birthdays kick ass.

11:10pm: I drunkenly call A through F on my cell phone. I get a lot of “I can’t understand you”‘s. I decide to have no more drinks before I go home.

11:40pm: I’m in another bar near my house with my roommates Mike, Matt and Rhys and their ladyfriends Meredith and Kelly. They are closing TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT.

11:55pm: We are in our second bar. It is much nicer and louder. I am handed Long Island Iced Tea after Long Island Iced Tea with way too much Long Island and little to no Iced Tea.

12:01am: I receive a birthday shot from a guy named Ryan. He thinks it’s funny we have the same first name. It’s your money, pal.

1:30am: I am home. Matt drove me. The whereabouts of my car and wallet are relatively unimportant compared to thoughts of my girlfriend coming over with cake.

1:45am: Two of my co-workers, Jesse and Ashley, come over and are completely drunk in honor of me.

1:46am: My boss, Yuki, shows up. I’ve never once showed him where my house was.

1:47am: My girlfriend arrives with cake. Ashley is in the hallway smiling and humming “Happy Birthday”. I’m telling Yuki how much I want to marry my girlfriend because she “bakes like my mother wishes she could”. Yuki agrees that I should, indeed, marry her.

2:30am: I am given a piece of my cake. It tastes like it was baked with “wonderful” and “happiness”.

2:46am: I pass out in my bed mumbling something about Chamomile Tea to my girlfriend.

3:56am: I wake up to someone playing my drums downstairs.

3:57am: I start humming a Red Hot Chili Peppers song and smile.

3:58am: I fall back asleep to people yelling the word “birthday” downstairs intermittently.

P.S. I had a European tip me 15 dollars today on a 35 dollar meal. It is official: Europeans tip better than black people.