Tea Time

Many years ago...

So many of my stories start like that. Let's change it up a little, shall we?

A long fucking time ago...

There, that looks a lot better.

Let's continue.

A long fucking time ago, I worked at an upscale Italian trattoria named Bruzzi, located in oh, so fucking chic Aventura, Florida. The food really wasn't all that spectacular, but the place was new, trendy, and cool. Okay, it really wasn't new. Previously, it had been owned by Patrick Swayze, but it hadn't been an overpriced pizza joint then. It had been a 50's themed diner kind of place that  made the staff sing and dance and shit on command. Yeah, fuck that. It failed miserably. However, Bruzzi was still trendy and cool, although I don't know what was all that fucking cool about it. The restaurant was an interesting place to work and by interesting, I mean it was a fucking nightmare. The clientele was a jetsetting crowd that felt as entitled as they were rich. These folks thought their shit not only didn't stink, but tasted delicious too. Outrageous requests, extremely detailed special orders, to the point of constructing their own meals from various items on the menu and generally just being the neediest motherfuckers and the biggest pains in the ass on the face of the fucking planet. However, the money was incredible and shit tastes great, for the right price. Money makes up for a lot. Oh yeah, it certainly does.

Sometimes we served the famous and infamous, too. There was the time that I waited on Perry Farrell of Jane's Addiction. It was during his Porno for Pyros days and Perry was a totally cool cat, if a bit eccentric. Dude paid using a Porno for Pyros gold card. Awesome shit. Perry grew up in nearby North Miami Beach and he went to high school with a lot of my friends. Have you ever noticed how it is that when someone becomes famous, everyone that they went to high school with is their best friend? Not with Perry. No one admitted to being his friend, but the guy was a legend at North Miami Beach Senior High School and most notably remembered for running and screaming naked through the halls. 

So many crazy things happened in that place and my co-workers were all so delightfully demented. There are many tales to tell of my time there and a few of those stories will make an appearance here, whenever those stories are ready to be told.

One night, when the restaurant was slammed, which was every night, I was seated a party of four that consisted of two older Jewish couples who were obviously transplanted New Yorkers. As I greeted them and took their drink order, I silently prayed for them not to order hot tea and I repeated this mantra over and over in my head.

"Please don't order hot tea. Please don't order hot tea," I thought and I thought and then I thought some more. The two old ladies ordered hot tea. Of course they fucking did. I don't know why I bother pleading and whimpering to the invisible sky people, because that shit never works. It's either that, or the invisible sky people like to fuck with me. More likely, I'm just fucking insane. Take your pick, one choice is as good as another.

I got their drinks and delivered them to the table, dropped them off and politely asked if everyone was ready to order. They informed me that they needed some extra time and I took off to go do some waiter shit, like fuck off, smoke a cigarette, take a bake break, or whatever else I could sneak away and do, in order to avoid actually having to work. Look, we had food runners, service assistants, bussers and all sorts of other support staff and I had to tip out every single one of those bitches. Fuck that. Let them do all of the hard work. I just needed to look pretty, take orders and sling that shit. 

As I was making my way back through the dining room, one of the old ladies flagged me down by snapping her fingers at me. I winced. There's some shit that you just don't do and snapping your fingers at your waiter is one of them; it's incredibly rude. Normally, I'd look a snapper directly in the eye, smile and walk the other way, because fuck you. But for some reason (it must have been a bake break) I maintained my calm, professional demeanor and I made my way over to the table, thinking that they were ready to order.

Before I go any further, I really, really, really need to describe this woman to you, it's essential to the story. Picture an old Jewish woman, around nine thousand or so years old, as wrinkled and shriveled as a prune, with the bluest grey hair that you can possibly imagine and a voice that I don't even know how to begin to describe with the written word, but I can do a perfect imitation of her voice. You really need to hear the voice, it's a key ingredient. Maybe I'll do an audio version of this story on YouTube. I've often heard that I have the perfect voice for radio. As an aside, I've also been told that I have the perfect face for radio, too. I'm not sure how to take that. What do you think? Want to hear a story? Anyway, back to her voice. Imagine all of the wonderful attributes that I just mentioned and combine them with a voice that was as dry as cracked parchment and pure gravel. We're talking fifteen packs of smokes a day, chased with whiskey kind of gravel. And of all of this pleasantness was accompanied by a raspy, wheezing noise that she used to punctuate her words.

As I approached the table, she grabbed my arm, which is the ultimate no-no, looked up at me and she said, "Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."

To my credit, I didn't grab her by the back of the neck and bash her fucking prune face into the table. Don't ever fucking touch me. I'll shank a bitch.

Instead, I apologized and removed the offending kettle of hot water from the table, returned it to the kitchen and I made her a completely fresh set up. I brought the hopefully hotter water back to the table, apologized once more and set the kettle down in front of her. She placed her hands around the kettle, which was a thick, glazed stoneware.

The old woman grunted, looked up at me and said, "Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."

I tried to explain to her that she wouldn't be able to feel the heat through the thick stoneware, but she would have none of it, demanding that I bring her hotter water. I once again removed the kettle from the table, went into the kitchen, emptied it and refilled it with scalding hot water from the espresso maker. I returned to the table, apologized again and put the kettle back on the table.

Her shriveled and bony hands shot out, encircling the kettle and then she made that angry grunting noise again.

"Oh, shit," I thought, "Here it comes."

"Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)," she spoke with what sounded like her dying breath. I wished I was that lucky.

Oh, for fuck's sake. This was starting to take up entirely too much of my time and I had other tables that needed attending to. This shit was really starting to get on my last fucking nerve. I was now officially in the weeds, which is restaurant speak for being completely fucked and so far behind that they need to send a search party out to find your sad, sorry ass. From all appearances, I was about to become Dr. Fucking Livingston, or so I presumed.

I snatched the fucking kettle off the table and I dashed into the kitchen, except this time, I exchanged it for a teacup and I filled that fucker up with boiling water, threw it into the microwave and I watched that shit boil like a motherfucker. When I was certain that the old bitch would burn the living fuck out of herself, I ran the hot water back to the table. The water in the cup was still bubbling, as I placed the cup on the table in front of her. I didn't apologize. Fuck that shit.

The old crone shot me the evil eye as her hands grabbed the tea cup.

I smirked. There was no fucking way. And then my arrogant, self-satisfied smile slithered away.

"Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."

Get the fuck out. Are you serious? Are you fucking with me? There was no fucking way, No fucking way. That fucking water was hot enough to fucking maim. Bullshit.

I completely fucking lost it.

I bent down next to her and I spoke into her ear, "Ma'am, it's because you're dead. You're dead and your brain just hasn't caught up to your body yet. Now shut up and drink your tea."

It's always so easy to pinpoint that moment where you know that you just fucked everything up. I only wish that I had hindsight for foresight. Fuck.

Everyone always freaks the fuck out when I tell them that part. Y'all know perfectly well that's exactly what I said, because by that point, I just didn't have any fucks left to give. My field of fucks was barren, but still, everyone is always like, "Holy shit! What did she do/say?"

I'll tell you exactly what the evil old crone said and did...

She didn't say anything. because she shut the fuck up and she drank her fucking tea.That's exactly what she did and that was the end of that. No complaints, nothing. I swear, if shit didn't fuck up all of the time, I'd think I led a charmed life.

Generally, I'm very professional and quite unflappable, but occasionally people can take things just a little too far and the customer isn't always right, either. While you're busy monopolizing my time for your petty concerns, perhaps you could explain to my other tables why you feel that you're more important than they are. I grew up around people like this woman, people who believe that the entire world revolves around them. Well, guess what, people? The fucking world doesn't revolve around you, not where I'm concerned. The only way to handle people like that is to beat them at their own game and stand up to them and put them in their place; bullies always fold and ridiculousness deserves ridicule.

Get over yourselves, you're not that fucking special...

For more tales of restaurant mayhem, give this one a try:

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