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.


Food Gets Cold, Dipshit.

January 25, 2007

Sometimes I am in utter astonishment over the incompetence of some people. It’s as if they walk into a restaurant and all common sense and simple knowledge just flies out the window.

Take last night for example. I’m serving a party of four and two of the people order food from the kitchen and two order sushi from the sushi bar. It’s busy, so it’s next to impossible to time it out to where they get their food at the exact same time, but I’m a decent enough waiter to where I can get the four dinners out within ten or so minutes of one another.

“Ten or so minutes” is obviously too long for some people. Particularly, old people. Hey, I understand…you’ve only got so long to live and you need SUSHI in those precious twilight years!

And I knew they’d be like this, so I explained ahead of time: “Alright…just so you know, the sushi chef and kitchen staff are very busy, so the dinners may not come out at exactly the right time, but I’ll try my best to have it so you get them within a few minutes of one another.”

I was greeted with the same scowles and frowns I would have received had I told them Murder She Wrote was off the air.

The kitchen staff gets the dinners done first so I rush to the back, get the dinners (with steam still rising from the freshly-cooked food) and take them to the four geriatrics at Table 9.

Grandma 1: “What is this?”
Me: “Um…Steak and Scallops…I believe it’s…”
Grandma 1: “Why are we getting ours before them?”
Me: “Well, you see…the sushi chef is making theirs right now. It should only be another ten…”
Grandma 1: “Take this away and DON’T bring it back out until THEIRS is ready.”
Me: “But, ma’am…the food will get c…”
Grandma 1: “No excuses!”

What is it with old people and the phrase “No excuses”?

Whatever. She wants her food cold…let her have it cold. The sushi gets done a mere NINE MINUTES LATER and I go to bring out the sushi and the dinners at the same time. This does not sit well with the brontosaurus of a woman on my right.

Grandma 1: “This food is LUKEWARM! I demand an explanation!”
Me: “You told me to put it in the back until they got their sushi.”
Grandma 1: “But why isn’t it hot?”
Me: “Because…that’s what…uh…food does?”
Grandma 2: “My sushi’s fine, Evelynn.”
Grandpa 1: “So’s my filet.”
Grandpa 2: “Can I have some chopsticks?”

Dammit.

DIGG This!


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!


Yea, I Love Getting In Trouble, Lady. Really, I Do.

January 20, 2007

Last night, an older couple came into my restaurant and ordered some sushi. The woman just wanted some soup and salad. That’s cool. We weren’t busy and I could care less.

A few minutes after bringing the soup, the lady was done and asked if she could have another one. A few minutes later she asked again for another one. Then, when the guy was done with his meal, she asked for one to go. Ma’am, it’s just chicken broth and some french onion bits. You can make it yourself for less money than four soups at our place.

When I gave them the check, she grabbed me by the arm and asked “I thought you said you were going to give me some soup.”

Me: (pointing at empty soup bowls and to-go soup) “Umm…I did?”
Her: “No. I thought you were going to give them to me.”
Me: “I don’t think that’s how restaurants work, ma’am.”
Her: “Well, you’re just a smart-ass, aren’t you?”
Me: “You can take it up with my manager if you feel you weren’t treated fairly.”
Her: “Maybe I will.”
Me: “Okay, I’ll go get her for y..”
Her: (interrupting) “No, no, no. Don’t do that! I’ll just pay the damn bill.”

Sorry, ma’am. I know how confusing today’s world is compared to your freeloading generation of decades ago where young people could get soup in restaurants and not pay for it. I blame making old people pay for the food THEY ASKED FOR IN THE FIRST PLACE on the degradation of society as a whole.

P.S. Yes, ma’am. I agree that I should go to Hell for making you pay for the food you ate at our restaurant.


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.


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.