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?


Ma’am, We All Didn’t Need To Know That You Were, In Fact, A Prostitute.

February 1, 2007

I have some very exciting news coming up by the end of this month. Not Earth-shattering news, but really good news nonetheless. That, and I’ll hit 60,000 visitors total. For only being up a little over 5 months, that’s pretty good. As your reward, the drunken ramblings of a woman that comes in our restaurant every so often.

A woman in her late 30’s, early 40’s comes into our restaurant quite a bit. She gets excessively drunk and acts like a complete douche. The only reason we haven’t banned her from the place is because she always orders $50+ of food at one time and because she tips rather well.

She also lets little secrets slip about her personal life that we would otherwise not need to know, nor want to know.

For example:

Her: “Yea…when my husband met me, I was working as a prostitute. He picked me up and we’ve been together e’er since!”

Her: “Man, I got so much money, I don’t know what to do w’ it.”
Our Bartender: “How’d you get all that money?”
Her: “‘Cause I suck a mean…”
Our Bartender: “That’s quite alright, ma’am.”

Her: “You think these teeth get all pearly white on their own.”
Our Bartender: “Ummm…what?”
Her: “To get this white, you gots to…”
Our Bartender: “Whoa whoa whoa!”

Her: “I have a girl that’s about your age.”
Our Bartender: “But…that’s impossible…that would make you how old when you had h…”
Her: “12.”
Our Bartender: “Wow.”
Her: “Yea. Wow.”

And so on and so forth.


And When I Ask For A Customer, I Don’t Expect A Bitch.

January 17, 2007

Me: “Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?”
Woman 1: “Yes, I’d like an ice water.”
Me: “Alright. I’ll be right out with that.”

(A few seconds later)

Woman 1: “What is this!?”
Me: “Umm…an ice water?”
Woman 2: “Why does it have a lemonin it!?”
Me: “Uh…”
Woman 1: “When I ask for an ICE WATER I don’t expect a LEMON.”
Me: “Sorry, ma’am. I guess it’s just because I’m so used to getting people lemons with their…”
Woman 1: “No excuses.”

Is this frickin’ high school football practice? “No excuses”? What’s next, calling me by last name from across the restaurant? How are you going to get all bent out of shape over a lemon wedge on the edge of your glass of water when that’s how 98% of the rest of the world drinks their water. That’s like asking for a house salad and then throwing a temper tantrum when they put tomatoes in it.

Sorry, ma’am. Next time you come in, I’ll ask if you want silverware with your meal, chicken with your “Chicken Dinner” and a straw with your drink. Screw you and your little fake breasts too.

P.S. Yea, that’s right. We all know your breasts are fake. Don’t flaunt them like they’re your own personal gift from God. Unless, of course, by “God”, you mean a “depressed, middle-aged, sexually frustrated husband who’s married to a frigid woman that snaps at waiters for putting lemons in their waters and whose only source of sexual excitement stems from the half-assed attempts of a plastic surgeon that, by the looks of things, flunked out of medical school twice.”


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’m Pro-Not Telling Anyone Anything Ever Again. How About That?

January 3, 2007

What is it about people that make them want to know the personal, spiritual and political beliefs about the people carrying out their Mello Yello? When I go to McDonalds, I don’t answer the frickin’ dude behind the counter’s question of “Do you want fries with that?” with “Do you think Social Security should be privatized?” Or “How about a nice, hot apple pie?” with “What’s your position on gay marriage?”

Customers, I’m in your lives a good hour a month. The guy you sit next to on the bus for work probably knows more about you than I do. So then why do you have to know things about me? In can only lead to trouble when you ask your server a personal question and he (dimwittingly) answers with a personal response.

Case in point: Tonight, I was serving a table of overweight and obnoxiously loud women that I could only guess were mothers. Why did I make that assumption? Because they 1) ordered every drink with a “water, no ice, lots of lemon” and 2) were overweight and obnoxiously loud women. Everyone knows that when you give birth, your hearing deteriorates slightly and you are prone to be “obnoxiously loud” relative to everyone else in the room.

That and they were getting hammered and the only thing I can think of that would cause me to get hammered in a restaurant is the thought that I have screaming, bratty kids to go back to in a couple of hours. Thank God for American Idol.

Anyways, so I’m serving the women, and the supposed “alpha female” of the group, Rita, drunkenly asked me “what [my] stance on abortion is”.

Only alcohol can give women the balls to ask a total stranger this ridiculous a question.

So I answer because I’m bored and like conversation. That and I’m retarded.

I’m not going to tell you my answer. Nor am I going to tell you the positive and/or negative reactions the drunken moms at the table gave me. Frankly, I could care less whether or not they agree or disagree with me.

What I am going to do is implore every reader out there that when they go to a restaurant, to not ask their server stupid crap like “What’s your stance on abortion?”

They have Mello Yellos to bring you and your obnoxiously loud family.


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.


And I Didn’t Think You’d Be So Rude, Sir.

December 14, 2006

The other night, I went up to a couple at a table with a small child and the dad was on the cell phone. So I turned to the mom and asked, “Hi there, my name is Ryan and I’ll be your waiter tonight. May I get you something to drink?”

Mom: “Yes, I’ll have a coke. And can you bring my son a milk in a styrofoam cup?”
Me: “Sure. And for you, sir?”
Dad: “Excuse me? Can’t you see I’m on the phone here!?”
Me: “Sorry, sir.”

So I get the coke and milk and the guy’s still on the phone. I ask the woman if she knows what he’d like to drink and then the dude launches into a tirade:

Dad: “What? You can’t ask me?”
Me: “I did. You said you were on the phone. I didn’t want to bother you ag…”
Dad: “Well…I didn’t think you’d be so interrupting.”
Mom: “Honey, it’s a restaurant. He’s a waiter.”
Dad: “What did you just say?”
Me: “I’ll give you guys a few minutes.”

A few minutes later and the guy is fuming. “We need the check,” he said through literal clenched teeth. Poor woman. Whatever, at least I got two bucks out of it all. She, on the other hand, will probably get two black eyes.