Back when I used to wait tables, I would always have a cheesy, canned response to most of the things that a guest would say, if they liked their food. For example, if they liked the vegetables, I'd say that I had come in early and picked them fresh that morning. If they liked the wine, I'd stomped the grapes myself. The food? I cooked it. The fish? I caught it. From distilling the spirits and brewing the beer to churning the butter and baking the bread, I was a veritable one man show and those corny lines never failed to make my guests laugh.
Don't ask about that secret ingredient.
Until that one time, when one of those corny lines became one of the most embarrassing things I'd ever said.
The restaurant that I was working at had a fresh seafood special that day, a seasonal thing that our clientele went crazy for and the place was packed to the gills. One of the tables in my section was a party of six older folks and they had all ordered the special. No big deal. I rang their order in and dropped off their drinks from the bar. When their food was ready, I dropped it off and ensured they had everything that they needed. Taking my leave, I informed them that I'd be back shortly to check that everything was to their satisfaction.
When I returned, I asked them how everything was and they were ecstatic, raving about their meals and asking just how fresh the soft shell crab special really was.
"Well, let me tell you, they're as fresh as it gets. I was out all night, working hard at it and I caught the crabs fresh, just this morning," I said.
It was only after the stupidity fell out of my mouth that I realized what I had said. Things got really awkward, really fast, after that. Everyone at the table looked stunned.
I'm like a finger in your ass. I'm either a wonderful surprise or I make everything fucking awkward and uncomfortable. Guess which one it was this time?
Silence reigned. I'd have killed for any sound, even crickets, but I have never heard a more deafening silence in my entire life. My embarrassment began at my toes and quickly crept up to the top of my bald head. I started to stutter out God only knows what, because I don't think that I was even capable of forming a coherent sentence at the time.
I stopped trying to talk and kept my mouth clamped shut, which for me, well, it sounds a lot easier than it is. The awkward silence continued to grow, flex, and stretch until one of the older guys, bless his arterial sclerosis clogged little heart, started chuckling and then he was laughing so hard, I thought he might stroke out and die on me, or something. The other two guys at the table joined in and soon enough, even the little old ladies started tittering behind their hands and I relaxed a little, knowing that they weren't going to freak out and have me fired.
I'd like to say that I learned a valuable lesson that day, a lesson in the value of keeping my mouth shut, but we all know the truth of that...
While I don't smoke marijuana anymore, my views on it are the same as when I smoked it. I believe that marijuana is less harmful than alcohol, has scientifically proven medical benefits and that the consumption of marijuana should be a personal choice. Legalization increases tax revenue, provides employment and contributes to local economies. Crime rates are lower, opiate use and abuse are also lower, and contrary to popular belief, people are not intentionally giving marijuana edibles to children (that shit's expensive) and it has been well documented that use among children has not increased. Marijuana is not the boogeyman hiding under the bed that we once thought it was.
But I'm not writing this to advocate for the legalization of marijuana.
I'm also rather opinionated on the topic of drug testing. I don't like it and I don't believe in it. I believe that drug testing is an affront to liberty, dignity, and privacy. That being said, my being able to work and pay my bills is more important to me than catching a buzz and I expect to have to take a drug test when applying for employment. I think that drug testing is overly intrusive and that a corporation should not have the right to be able to demand a sample of my urine, DNA, hair, blood, or saliva. I've never smoked before work, I've never been high on the job, and frankly, what I do on my own time is my business, not my employer's.
But I'm not writing this to advocate for the elimination of drug testing, either.
Nope. Today, we're going to talk about what it's like to be the poor schmuck who was confronted with taking a drug test when he knows damn well that he's not going to pass it, but takes it anyway. Of course, that poor schmuck would be me.
Now, you may have read about a previous experience that I had when it comes to drug testing in the story "In a Pickle", but this one takes a somewhat different track.
Many, many years ago, I was working full-time and looking to take on a part-time job. I had been applying to a lot of different companies, because my skill set is pretty varied and I happen to know a lot about absolutely nothing, which makes me fairly qualified for a political career, I guess. One of the places that I applied to was an Awful House restaurant in Martinsburg, WV, looking for a position as a cook. As I was filling out the application, the manager struck up a conversation with me and he started asking me questions about my background, experience and education. We spoke for a few minutes and he asked me if I would be interested in applying for a management position. As it turned out, he was not the restaurant manager, he was the district manager for the company. He turned on the charm and I informed him that I really wasn't that interested, but he pressed on. He started talking numbers; base pay, bonuses and benefits. Those were some pretty big numbers that he was throwing at me and I had no idea that the managers at those little shit holes were earning that kind of cash. Suddenly, I was a bit more interested.
We spoke some more and our casual conversation turned into a full blown interview and he offered me the position. I would have six weeks of training in the location that I was at and then I would be opening my own store on the other side of town. My start date would be contingent upon the results of my background check and drug test.
Wait. What?
Drug test? That motherfucker never mentioned anything about a fucking drug test when he was talking me into that bullshit. The background check wouldn't be a problem, but that drug test, yeah... that was going to be a bit of a problem. This was why I had just wanted to be a part-time cook, I hadn't wanted to be bothered with that kind of bullshit. I'd never heard of drug testing restaurant employees before. Hell, most restaurant employees are high, think about that the next time your server or the cook fucks up. If restaurants started drug testing their employees, there wouldn't be many restaurants left. I'll even tell you why we do drugs. It's because of YOU, motherfucker. We do drugs because of motherfuckers like you. Seriously. The general public treats us like shit. That's okay, think that fucking smile is real? Wondering why your food is taking so long? Throat feeling a little parched, because you sucked down five sodas, demanded a sixth and are wondering where the fuck your server is? That's because we fucking hate you too. Piss us off and we'll fuck your shit up ten ways from Sunday. Want it your way? Go to motherfucking Burger King or cook that shit at home, just the way you fucking like it. Now you've got it your fucking way.
Anyway, most restaurants wouldn't dream of drug testing their employees, but not the fucking Awful House. Oh no, this fucking place had to have a "Christian Ethic" that management had to aspire to. The management of Awful House was held to a completely different and much higher standard than their hourly employees. Role model bullshit and all that. It's hard to have a Christian ethic when you're not a Christian and I really didn't want to let silly little things like ethics get in the way of all of my raping and killing. A man needs his pursuits.
This was complete bullshit, of course, but I'd swallowed enough bullshit by this point in my life that I'd acquired a taste for it. The real question was if I really was willing to put up with this bullshit for money? Well, it was a lot of fucking money and I just needed to pass one silly little drug test. How fucking hard could that be?
I had a plan.
I had to schedule the test within five days. No problem. I needed one of two things and I was golden; I needed someone who could provide me with a clean urine sample, or I needed some type of masking agent.
This left me with two problems.
Problem #1 - I didn't know a single person that could provide me with a clean urine sample. Everyone that I knew back then was a pothead. Fucking potheads.
Problem #2 - I'd tried using masking agents before and based upon my previous experiences, they were completely worthless. No, they were worse than useless. I'd tried a product called "The Stuff", which came with a money back guarantee. Well, "The Stuff" was "Le Shit" and the money back guarantee was just as worthless as the product was. Guaranteed to fucking fail, is what it was.
Fuck. Things weren't looking very good for me, but I wasn't ready to give up just yet.
I had looked at some other methods for passing a drug test. There were online forums that were devoted to the art and full of erroneous advice. I read through discussion after discussion about the efficacy of bleach, vinegar and pickle juice (yeah, fuck that and fuck you too, Chad). There was even a white paper written by the guy who invented the fucking thing in the first place (feeling guilty, motherfucker?) And then there was some really strange shit that my research turned up, commercial products that were available for purchase, wondrous and magical things such as synthetic urine (who thinks of this shit?) and even a synthetic penis, the Whizzonator delivery system, which was basically just a big old rubber dildo that squirted fake pee. Yeah, um, no.
Not exactly the gift that keeps on giving, unless you're into giving golden showers. ***Spoiler alert*** Guess what you're getting for Christmas?
A friend of mine suggested that I try Tommy Chong's Urine Luck, a masking agent that my friend claimed had worked for him. I drove over to the local smoke shop and I bought a bottle. I had my study aid and I was ready to pass my drug test. The clerk at the store told me that it looked and smelled just like the real thing. I asked him about the taste test. People are so fucking uptight.
The big day arrived without fanfare (fuck that, my life deserves fanfare and a soundtrack) and I went to the lab to take my drug test. I walked in and greeted the female technician at the front desk. She had me show her my ID, sign in and then I had to sign a small forest of paperwork. The tech then asked me to empty my pockets. No problem, because the Urine Luck was securely taped to the inside of my thigh, in order to keep it at body temperature, because I'm fucking smart like that. The tech asked me if I was ready and then led me into the bathroom where she explained that I was not to close the door, I was to pee into the cup, I was not to touch or flush the toilet and I was not to wash my hands. She asked me if I understood all of that claptrap and asked if I had any questions. Seriously? I needed to pee in a cup. It wasn't exactly rocket science.
Ready, set, wait...
The tech was still in the bathroom with me. What the fuck? Not cool. Now, I had questions. Serious questions. Was she going to watch? Maybe hold it for me, too? Maybe she'd like to go outside and write my fucking name in the snow with it. More importantly, did she have good hand writing? I wouldn't want to sign my name to anything that might be less than the best. The technician's continued presence presented me with a little conundrum; I still needed to get to the bottle of Urine Luck that was taped to my thigh and this woman was watching me like a motherfucking hawk. This really wasn't working out the way that it was supposed to.
The lab tech looked away and I was good to go. I unleashed the beast and... nothing.
I had motherfucking stage fright. Yeah... this shit really wasn't working out for me.
I overcame my shyness and started filling the cup, but I still needed to get to the bottle of Urine Luck that was taped to my leg. I reached into my pants and grasped the bottle, giving it a quick tug. Nothing happened. The bottle was stuck fast against my thigh. Looking back, maybe duct tape wasn't my best choice for an adhesive, as the tape strained against my leg, painfully pulling at the hair that it was attached to. I pulled harder and the tape ripped free, taking all of the hair on my thigh along with about two layers of skin. That shit fucking hurt. I stifled a scream and nearly spilled my pee all over myself.
I looked at the instructions on the bottle. In hindsight. maybe it would have been a better idea to read the instructions before the moment of truth. Shit happens. Real men don't read the fucking instructions, anyway. Fuck that, I sure as shit was all about reading those fucking instructions right then. Hey, if Bruce Jenner can be a little bitch, so can I.
Step 1 - Pour Urine Luck into the urine sample.
Simple enough. I emptied the bottle into the sample cup.
Step 2 - Stir.
Stir?
My head spun.
Stir? Get the fuck out of here. How the fucking fuck was I supposed to stir that shit in the middle of a fucking drug test?
What the fuck was I going to stir it with?
I looked at my finger and let out a sigh.
"Fuck it," I thought, as I plunged my finger into the cup. I dipped and stirred.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. A fuck for every lap around the cup.
It was beyond fucking nasty, it was totally fucking gross. I'm pretty sure that I will never be into that whole golden showers thing. No lemon parties for me, thanks.
Don't click that link! Too late? So fucking sorry, bro.
If you just went back and clicked that shit, I promise you that your life will never be the same again. If you still haven't clicked it, don't. I'm warning you for the last time. That which has been seen, cannot be unseen.
So, my finger was covered in piss and I wasn't allowed to wash my hands. Urine Luck, my ass. If this was fucking luck... Jesus...
I needed to zip back up, but I really didn't want to touch myself, not at all, not with my piss finger anyway. Fuck! I managed to take care of business, cringing at my own touch and completely disgusted with myself. Hell, it's not like I can really complain that it was the first time I've ever been disgusted with myself, or the tenth. It certainly wasn't the last time, either. I'm just blessed like that. My fucking cup runneth over.
Speaking of cups, I handed the cup over to the still oblivious tech. She sealed the sample and labeled it. I was then allowed to wash my hands. What did it matter now? I'd already pissed away all of my dignity and whatever small measure that may have remained now washed slowly down the drain like so much soap scum.
I dried my hands, tucked my tail between my legs, and left the lab as quickly as possible. It was a traumatic experience and I needed to smoke a joint for my PTSD. I was puffing away before I pulled out of the parking space.
I patiently awaited the results of my drug test. Translation - I was paranoid as fuck.
Time passed slowly. I didn't expect to hear anything right away but three days had gone by. I was starting to wonder what was going on.
After the fourth day had passed, I still hadn't heard back from Awful House, so I gave the district manager a call.
He hung up on me as soon as I said who I was. Well, maybe the call dropped. Yeah, that was it, the call must have dropped. I called him again and he hung up on me again. What the fuck? I stopped calling. Fuck that place.
A few days later, I received a copy of the lab report in the mail. Evidently, the amount of THC in my system may have disqualified me from employment and it was a wonder that I hadn't peed green.
I also tested positive for the masking agents in the Urine Luck.
Some fucking luck.
If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:
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:
Every now and then, I like to tell stories about my time in the restaurant industry. I grew up in the business. Literally. My parents owned several bars and a restaurant over the years.
When I was eight years old, my parents opened a restaurant in Pompano Beach, Florida. The eponymously named "Marandola's" served a somewhat more upscale fare, but was still home to many Italian favorites. The restaurant was frequented by a great many tough looking Italian men who came in singly or in variously sized groups. All of these men seemed to be friends of my father's and all of them seemed to have come from New York, New Jersey or Philadelphia; their accents reminiscent of Brooklyn and South Philly. My parents used to think it was cute to have me take baskets of bread out to the tables, where I would get tipped a dollar or five and then the dago bastards would always tousle my hair and call me "Stevie". For a little kid, it was a pretty lucrative racket, but I really despised having my hair tousled and being called "Stevie". As time went on, I started doing more and more around the restaurant; hosting, bussing tables, washing dishes, even a bit of cooking, here and there, but I never waited tables and I never wanted to.
Eventually, my parents sold the restaurant, but my experience there paid off and enabled me to land a job bussing tables at another restaurant. The skills that I learned working for my parents and what I have added to my skillset over time have come in handy many times and served me well, over the years.
When I was around seventeen, I had a job in the kitchen of a restaurant at a motel named The Colonial Inn, located in Sunny Isles, Florida. The motel and many others like it were a haven for all of the snowbirds who would flock down from the Northeast US and Canada, escaping the cold and spending the winter months in sunny South Florida. Depending upon the time of day, I would either be cooking, bussing tables, washing dishes or cleaning the kitchen. The pay was shit and the owner, Jeff, was cheap as hell and a complete douchebag to work for, but I got back at him by fucking his daughter Penny, who worked as the hostess and cashier. Quid pro quo, motherfucker. Quid pro quo.
As we moved into our busy season, Jeff hired another part-time cook to help out with the heavier volume. This was great for me, because it took some of the burden off of my back and I had to do a lot less of the shit work, because we had a new guy.
One day, the restaurant was packed and two of the waitresses hadn't shown up for work. There was a huge line at the door, the kitchen was slammed, we were out of clean dishes on the line and I ran back to the dish area to get the dishwasher going. Suddenly, Jeff walked up to me and I'll never forget the words that he said to me, "We're short in the dining room. I need you to start waiting tables. You're cleaner and more presentable than the other guy is and you know what goes on in the front of the house."
Jeff thrust some shit at me.
"Here's a pen and a pack of checks. Penny will tell you which tables are yours and she'll help you as much as she can. Don't fuck this up."
I was stunned. I stared at Jeff, bewildered.
"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Jeff asked me. "Get the fuck out there and start taking tables. You're gonna' fuck this up. Don't fuck this up."
Asshole.
I walked out into the dining room and it was complete pandemonium. Penny walked right up to me, grabbed my arm and pointed at a table.
"Start with that one," Penny said. "Ask them what they'd like to drink, write it down, get their drinks and take their order. Now! Go!
With that said, Penny smacked my ass and pushed me toward the table.
I nervously approached the table and introduced myself. Sitting before me were three older ladies and an older gentleman. They all had thick Germanic accents. I knew the type and knew that they were going to be very demanding. Great, just fucking great. They ordered three hot teas for the ladies and coffee, for the gentleman. Moments later, I discovered just how much I hate making hot tea for other people; it's a huge pain in the ass, incredibly time consuming and it's the bane of my fucking existence. I've always said a silent prayer at tables with old people, "Please don't order hot tea. Please don't order hot tea."
The power of prayer...
I pray and I pray.
The power of prayer, my ass. It never fucking works. They always order hot tea. There is no god.
People who order hot fucking chocolate are even worse. Hot chocolate? Seriously? What are you, five years old? Seriously. If you're an adult and you want hot chocolate, stay the fuck home and make it yourself, you entitled fucking asshole.
Unless you are under ten years old, don't even try to order that shit from me. If you're a kid, I'll happily make hot chocolate for you. If you're an adult, I'll either tell you that we don't have it, or I'll put the water in the cup, dump in the powder and cover that shit with whipped cream. There's no way in hell that I'm stirring that shit for you, I'm not your bitch. Hot chocolate. Fuck you.
Now you know two things that will really piss your server off. Wield this knowledge wisely.
I brought their drinks back to the table, took their dinner order and then dropped the check off in the kitchen.
Jeff looks at me and says, "Don't fuck this up."
Gee, thanks for the vote of fucking confidence, douchebag.
I walked back out into the dining room and Penny tells me that I have three more tables and that I need to hurry, because she's about to seat me more. I started to panic a little, because I totally wasn't ready for that shit. This was a sink or swim moment and I wasn't ready to drown just yet. My entire attitude changed to "Fuck it", an attitude that I've managed to carry with me up until this very day and one that I expect to serve me for years to come. I calmly went about my business, as long as you define calmly as me, running my ass off and trying to figure out just what the hell I'm supposed to be doing and somehow, in supposed to be doing all of this on the fly. Yup, sounds like complete and utter calm to me.
Thankfully, I'm a lazy fucker and laziness need breeds efficiency and makes for great organizational skills. I stayed afloat and managed not to screw anything up too badly. I was all like, "I got this shit," and shit and I was starting to feel a bit cocky about it.
By this time, the old folks had finished their meal and I cleared away their dirty dishes and took those back to the kitchen. I returned to the table and I offered them dessert, which they declined. They did ask for more coffee and hot water for tea, which, as I'm sure you can tell, had me absolutely jumping for joy. It's a good thing for Joy that she jumped first.
As I was pouring the coffee and hot water, the older gentleman asked me to bring a large bowl of hot water with lemons to the table. I was a little confused by his request and I asked him to be a little more specific. He became very agitated and he told me, in a very rude and demeaning tone, to just bring him a large bowl, full of boiling water and to throw in some lemons,
I walked back into the kitchen, still a little confused, but I did as he asked. The only bowls that we had in the restaurant were these big ass soup bowls, so I took one, filled it with boiling water, tossed in a few lemons. set it all on a tray and carried it out into the dining room.
As I approached the table, I stumbled and I watched in slow motion horror as the tray flipped over, the bowl of hot water went flying, upended and landed directly in the old guy's lap.
I recovered my balance and stood there, mortified.
There was about two seconds of complete silence and then all fucking hell broke loose.
The old guy jumped up and the bowl took flight once again, crashing to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces of flying shrapnel. I looked at the old man, horrified, but then I noticed that he looked as if he had pissed himself. I couldn't help myself; I started laughing. And laughing. I had completely lost it.
The old guy turned his evil eyes upon me and started screaming, "You stupid son of a bitch; you dumb bastard. Look what you've done, you idiot. You don't belong out here, you don't deserve to be a waiter. You're not a waiter! You should be the dishwasher."
Funny, I was doing that just about an hour ago...
"Yeah, about that..." I thought to myself, "Tomorrow, when I'm cooking your food, I'm going to poison you, you motherfucker. At the very least, I'm going to rub your fucking pancakes all over my balls."
I was still laughing. I couldn't stop and the old man just kept getting angrier and that only made me laugh harder.
I tried to apologize, but the old guy shut me right down. He was royally pissed off and throwing an epic temper tantrum. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back into the kitchen, composed myself and told Jeff my version of what had happened, which was, of course, the unimpeachable truth.
"Jesus Christ," Jeff said disgustedly, "I told you not to fuck it up and here you went and fucked it up."
Jeff ran into the dining room and went to the table.
Yeah, fuck you too, jefe.
I don't know what it was that Jeff said to the old bastard, but when I went back to the table to drop off the check, the old man apologized to me for his outburst, said that accidents happen and that a change of pants didn't mean the end of the world. He thanked me for my service, paid the check and told me to keep the change, To my complete shock, he had left me a twenty dollar tip on a fifty dollar check. I was elated.
The rest of the day went smoothly and I ended up making a lot of money. Jeff was so pleased with my performance that he permanently made me a waiter and gave me all of the best shifts and my income doubled. I'm still not sure if that was a promotion or a demotion, but I do know that night, a legend was born, even if it was just in my own mind.
“Be careful, lest in casting out your demons you exorcise the best things in you.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche
Many years ago, I worked for a very small restaurant chain in Florida that was known for offering half-price appetizers during their happy hour. This promotion was loathed by all of the employees and it would attract all of the really cheap and completely broke assholes for miles around and it would basically result in the front of the house staff working twice as hard, for half the money. These entitled motherfuckers would come in, spend their five or ten dollars and they would then proceed to treat you rudely, run your ass off, complain about everything and leave you a shitty tip, if they bothered to tip you at all. It was complete bullshit.
There were always a few gems hidden amongst the throngs of losers that came in for their half-price food; a few decent people that made all of the bullshit worthwhile. On certain nights, we would get a large church crowd in addition to everyone else that would show up for the late night appetizer trough; large and small groups of pleasant and polite folks that were members of a local church; a somewhat strange Christian sect that no one seemed to know much about. All in all, the adults were pretty decent folks who treated you with genuine courtesy, tipped well and were relatively easy to take care of; they just had a few small peculiararities, that's all. Well...
I did make a few observations about those people. I'm not judging mind you, even though we all know damn well that I am, so let's just pretend that I'm not, okay?
There seemed to be some question as to the nature of the religious identity and belief system of these people. Many of my co-workers believed them to be Mennonites, but being familiar with Mennonites and their beliefs and having lived in areas with large Mennonite populations, I can tell you that this just wasn't the case. The men from this church had no facial hair and the women wore no bonnets, whereas Mennonite men grow beards and the women wear a head covering. Mennonites are basically Amish people that choose to live in the modern world.
I never learned the name of the church that they attended, but they would always come in after services, which were always on odd days and at strange times, but it seemed as if their main services would end fairly late in the evening. I guess that everyone worked up quite an appetite, dancing with snakes and speaking in tongues and after the expense of tithing, all they could afford to eat was the shit that we served. They would arrive after ten o'clock and entire families of them would start queuing up at the front door, all wearing their Sunday best; the men and boys dressed in suits, while the girls and women all wore dresses and sported matching beehive hairdos. These were some seriously super stylish dresses. Imagine the Sound of Music seriously super stylish dresses, homespun and everything. It really did look as if the women's clothing was cut from curtains and it sometimes made me wonder if the carpet matched the drapes. Either that, or the damn things were cut from the upholstery of some hideously ugly couch; some castoff relic from a bad 60's acid trip art session,. These were some seriously ugly fucking dresses, let me fucking tell you. Gaudy floral dresses are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. It was quite a contrast to see the men in their store bought suits compared to the ladies that were stuck wearing curtains and sheets. It seemed as if the men got to ride up in first class, while the women had to travel coach.
Apparently, their church had some mighty strange rules when it came to the respective roles of each sex and to the mixing thereof. I've always thought of those people as being a part of the Quiverfull movement, where the men rule the roost and the women are completely subservient to their husbands. Stepford women whose assigned roles were evidently that of dutiful wives, nurturing mothers and baby making machines, as the families were all quite large.
All unmarried females over a certain age were completely segregated from the main groups. These spinsters would usually sit together, because an unmarried woman was not allowed to speak to a man unless the man spoke to her first. To me, this seemed more about power and control, rather than traditional gender roles, but what the fuck do I know? I think that any religion that keeps a woman subservient to a man and under his control should cause someone to re-examine their values and beliefs and yet it just doesn't happen. It's amazing how quickly some people will abdicate all responsibility for themselves in order to not have to deal with the more difficult aspects of life, or any part of life, for that matter. People are such willing slaves and happiness is slavery, I guess.
As for the children, the girls were sweet, meek and polite, if dumb, while the boys had to have been among the most obnoxious, ill bred and entitled little shits that I have ever come across. The words "please" and "thank you" never seemed to figure into their vocabularies and the little tyrants would just make demand after demand, trying to run your ass off. Those boys were sadly lacking in social skills, treating everyone that was not a member of their tribe with a smug sense of superiority and moral disdain. Those horrible little heathens certainly could have used a lesson in manners and civility, a lesson involving a belt and an awful lot of humility. Speaking of lessons, the children were all home schooled and it was quite evident that religious indoctrination took precedence over any form of secular education. Basically, these kids were the most ignorant litttle fuckers that I've ever come across. Hell, they made my little bastards seem downright angelic and articulate.
One particularly busy Friday night, we were getting our asses handed to us and I guess that services had ended and church had emptied out; each family making their way over to the restaurant and that half-price food. Thankfully, with the section that I was in that night, I didn't have any tables that could accomodate large parties, so I was saved from having to run my ass off and from having to make nine hundred and forty-three freaking Strawberry Mountain Dews and Mango Fucking Pepsi's. Seriously. Who the fuck drinks shit like that? Worse, what kind of fucking parent lets their kids drink shit like that at eleven o'clock at night? With multiple refills, no less. Even worse, I used to throw in extra shots of sugary syrup just to make the kids even more hyper and to punish the parents, because fuck that and those little bastards drank it up, becoming more and more hyper as time went on. Fuck, even I can't ingest that kind of caffeine and sugar and I live on that shit. It's no wonder that they would spend hours in the parking lot after we closed, letting the kids run around like little maniacs, all hopped up on soda and Jesus.
I only had one table open in my section and the host dropped off a single, older lady in her bright and gaudy finest. She wasn't really older, being somewhat around my age, but her dress, hair and demeanor made her seem about ten years older than she probably was. Plus, I'm old as fuck, so you get what I mean.
I idly admired the print of the curtains that she was wearing and wondered how long ago that particular floral pattern had been hanging in the window of some abandoned home somewhere. As I was about to make my way over to the table and get her drink order (I don't always introduce myself, you don't have a right to know my name and I mostly all of the time wear a fucking name tag, so if you can't fucking read, it's on you, bitch), my manager walked up to me and told me that the woman seated at my table was a regular customer, that she came in by herself every Friday night and always ordered the salmon and that I was to make sure that she was well taken care of and that I needed to make her feel special. I assured my boss that I was up to the task and that I'd take care of it. No worries.
"Steve," she said in a warning tone, "Be nice."
"No worries," I said. "I can pretend to be anything."
I smiled. My boss had a panic stricken expression on her face that I found amusing. I laughed as I turned around and walked off, realized that I was headed the wrong way, turned around again and acted like I knew where I was going.
As I approached the table, I turned on the charm, such as it was, The only thing that this meant was that I was able to hide my normal, "Why don't you go fuck yourself" attitude while I pretended to be a normal and pleasant human being. People actually fall for that shit. People are fucking stupid and easily fooled.
"What the fuck is this?" I remember thinking.
The woman had shielded her face with her hand and averted her gaze, looking away from the rest of the restaurant and staring intently at the menu. I'm shooting in the dark here, but I'm guessing that she did this in order not to inflame the passions in the loins of any nearby men, which is a totally good thing, but she really didn't need to worry about inflaming anything. Trust me. Oh, dear Jesus, trust me.
I actually introduced myself, pretending to be all nice and shit. She fell for it. The moment that I spoke to her, the hand dropped and she turned her face to me. Her master's voice, She introduced herself to me and told me that she came in all of the time. I told her that I noticed that she came in every Friday night (I'd never seen her before) and mentioned that she always got the salmon. She blushed.
"I didn't think that anyone ever noticed me," she said. She was beaming.
Oh, shit. Was she flirting with me? I briefly wondered if there was a possibility of turning her into a pot smoking, alcohol guzzling, gutter slut and stifled an evil cackle that others might have interpreted as a giggle or a laugh. I dialed back the charm a little and got down to business, asking what she'd like to drink. She ordered a "sample" of peach iced tea and a glass of water. I smiled and made my escape.
A sample of peach tea? I call bullshit. She wasn't going to sample the tea and buy one, she just wanted a free drink and this was all about getting something for free, but whatthefuckever and I went off to get the drinks. Every motherfucker wants shit for free.
I returned to the table with her drinks and she spoke to me some more, craving conversation and flirting awkwardly. Most of what she had to say centered around how much she loved our salmon and the artichoke spread that it was prepared with, but then she complained that the salmon was too dry on her last visit and asked me to make sure that it was prepared properly. I apologized for the poor quality of our food and joked about having been fishing that morning and that the salmon was nice and fresh, which it certainly never was. Surprisingly, she ordered the salmon.
I excused myself and headed over to the computer to place her order and I saw that my boss was standing there, waiting for me. I quickly wondered what I was in trouble for and how I was going to spin it, but I needn't have worried.
"You sure were there a long time," boss lady said. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to convert. What the hell were you talking to her about?"
"She was complaining about the salmon that she had last week. She said the fish was drier than her snatch, but she sure does love that artichoke spread. I was thinking about recreating the sex scene from Hot Shots with her."
It's kind of hard to describe the look on my manager's face at that moment. Her face had turned kind of reddish purple, she seemed to be having difficulty speaking and she also seemed to be on the verge of having a stroke or a seizure or something.
"Calm down," I said, "I'm just fucking with you, but she did say it was too dry. The salmon, I mean, not her snatch, although I'm sure it's like Death Valley in there."
The look of relief on her face was palpable, but then she laughed.
"There's really something wrong with you," she said.
"Yeah, no shit. There's really something wrong with you if you've just now figured that out," I replied. I smiled.
She let out a nervous little laugh, turned and quickly walked away. People do that a lot when I smile; I've never understood why.
I finished placing the order and I went off to do some waiter shit, prostituting myself for a few measly dollars here and there, when I noticed that my boss was visiting the chuch lady at her table and she was trapped in conversation. I smirked and kept on waitering.
When the salmon was ready, I brought it to the table, where the church lady was busily carving up a very large Portabella mushromm cap that was overflowing with artichoke spread. It looked disgusting.
"That looks good," I lied. "Where did that come from?"
"Your manager brought it to me," the church lady said. She was smiling from ear to ear. She suddenly picked up the plate and fast as a whip, she thrust it at me. I involuntarily took a step back, nearly jumping out of my skin.
"It's too much for me," she said. "Share it with me."
Awkward...
Where's Sexual Harassment Panda when you really need him?
I thanked her for her kind offer, but went on to explain that I couldn't, that I had Celiac Disease and that I couldn't eat anything with wheat or gluten and that I avoided eating in the restaurant, because it always made me sick.
And that's when it happened, In a flash, she dropped the plate with the mushroom cap and it clattered on the table and her hand shot out, palm first and stopped in front of my stomach and and in a clear, shrill voice, she shouted to the heavens.
"Dear Lord Jesus, cast those demons out of this poor man and heal him in your name, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior."
Wait. What? What the fuck just happened?
Holy fucking shit, did she really just try to cast out my demons? Get. The. Fuck. Out. This couldn't be fucking happening. Didn't this crazy bitch know who she was dealing with? Satan studied under ME, fer fuck's sake.
I was completely taken aback; stunned. I didn't know what to say. Had she really cast out my demons? Would the voices stop? I hoped not, they had some really cool fucking ideas. If my demons were gone, I wouldn't have any friends. What the fuck? Who was I supposed to snuggle with? I wanted to fucking cry. I might have. Who knows? I'm a sensitive motherfucker.
As an atheist, I was very offended. Who did this woman think she was, to presume that she could just force her religion upon me and pray over me? I felt preyed upon.
A silence had descended over my part of the dining room; people were staring. They were staring at me. I was fucking mortified, let me tell you. I had just been "faith healed" in front of an entire restaurant. In my mind, I stabbed the bitch in the eye with a fork, but in reality, I smiled at that fucking lunatic and I graciously thanked her for her efforts. And here you fuckers thought that I didn't have any class. I don't, really, but I can fake it when necessary. Kind of like what women do to me when we have sex and we both pretend that she had a good time.
She looked up at me and she said, "What you really need is to come home to a good woman and a home cooked meal every night."
The fuck I did. Make me a sandwich and get the fuck out, maybe, but this was almost like a fucking marriage proposal.
I made my escape from the table and avoided her until it was time to clear the table and present the check. Unfortunately, she decided to stay and have dessert. I casually mentioned that there was a very nice Baskin & Robins down the street, but I don't think that she got that ever so subtle hint. Shame.
The final blow came when I dropped off the check; that was when she invited me to go to church with her, that brazen hussy. Like on a date, but to church. And then what? Half-price appetizers and a hummer in the back seat? Let me think about that for a second. Nightmarish visions of gaudy floral print, homespun lingerie floated through my head. I shivered. I thought about that whole gutter slut thing again and dismissed it as a thoroughy bad idea, which was pretty surprising, because I'm usually all about bad decisions, but no. Hell no. No fucking way. I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a fork.
I politely declined, explaining that I worked two jobs and seven days a week. She looked as if I'd just crushed all of her hopes and dreams and that, at least really brightened my spirits.
I didn't say another word, I just ran like hell, only coming back to pick up payment. I was strictly business, saying as little as possible.
Later on, my manager asked me how things went and I told her what happened. She got that panicked and I'm about to have a fucking stroke look on her face again and she asked me what I did. I told her that I was totally cool about it and I think her blood pressure went down several hundred points. I didn't mention that whole eye stabbing thing with the fork. Some things are best left unspoken.
If you believe, that's fine with me, I respect that and you're welcome to believe as you like, but your rights end where mine begin and I expect you to have the same respect for my beliefs and rights as I do for yours. While prayer might make you feel better, it really doesn't do anything for me and it's unfair of anyone, not to mention unseemly, to force their belief system upon someone else, no matter how good their intentions may be. I'm proud of my penis, but I don't show it off and try to shove it down everyone else's throat, even if I do think the whole world can suck my dick. Think about that.
When I was a child, there weren't as many restaurants around as there are today. Casual dining was unheard of; going out to dinner was always a special occasion and you were always treated sumthin' fancy. You'd get all gussied up in your Sunday best and hit the town. The choices were pretty limited when it came to dinner and it usually came down to the steak house, the Italian restaurant or the Chinese place. The US in the 1970's was pretty lame when it came to food. It was a lot like television before cable came along.
These days we have every type of theme restaurant that you can imagine and it seems as if every ethnicity is represented. Casual dining and chain restaurants dot every strip mall and fast food franchises churn out their swill on virtually every corner. Competition for your dollar is fierce and many corporate restaurants will go to absurd extremes in the name of guest service while other, smaller mom and pop places can be known for having a fuck you attitude. Good service runs somewhere in between the two.
I have worked in the restaurant industry for entirely too many years. Long years, brutal years, and yes, painful years of suffering, hustling and kissing ass for cash. I have worked high end and low brow, mom and pop, corporate and fine dining. I have mixed cocktails and concoctions for the fancy pants crowd and tossed beers down the bar in smoke filled dives. I've loved it and I've hated it. There have been moments where... Well, best not to say anything that might or might not one day be used as evidence against me. I have always been happy to escape the clutches of the business and yet, I keep getting sucked back in, like an aging lot lizard that can't live without the glory hole and the limelight. It's a crazy, fast-paced and stressful business that takes a special kind of special to not only endure it, but to thrive. Seriously, you just can't even begin to imagine the shit and shenanigans that go on behind the scenes in an industry where most of the employees are just a quick diagnosis away from being institutionalized.
I'm not kidding.
I've seen it all in this business, or at least I think I have, but it seems as if every time that I say that, I then see something even more fucked up than the last most fucked up thing that I saw and you know what? That's really fucked up. I say the same thing about the Internet all of the time and yet I still get surprised. Horribly surprised. The things I've seen that can never be unseen. I live my life a haunted man.
Hold on, I need a tissue. And meds. Oh yes, meds. Yes, lots and lots of meds.
And then some more.
Let me tell you a little story...
Many, many years ago, I worked at a small fondue restaurant in Florida that is a locally owned franchise of a small national chain and it is known as the ultimate romantic restaurant. There is just something about this place that gets a woman primed. It is intimate, romantic, discreet and expensive. If you can't get laid after a dinner at this place, there is something seriously wrong with you, like you have visible signs of leprosy something wrong with you, or maybe you're a Little Richard (for my foreign readers, Richard is a euphemism for dick which is a euphemism for penis, but let's just say cock, because Tourette's) with a tiny, two inch penis, or perhaps you're a chicken fucker or something else that is way the fuck out there in left field, because we both know you're a freak. What I'm trying to say is that it's just about impossible not to get laid after a romantic dinner like that and you would have to go to extraordinary lengths to screw it up. And yet screw it up they did; I saw so many guys go down in flames. No chutes. No survivors.
Sealing the deal; it's not for everyone.
Flinging fondue was a great job, the restaurant was conveniently close to my apartment, the owners were awesome, it was staffed by lunatics, the clientele was super cool and somewhat strange, but most importantly, the money was great, as in cocaine and strippers great. That's not what I really spent my money on, it's just a comparison. I'm way too cheap to spend money on strippers. If I wanted to pay a woman money to pay attention to me, I'd get married.
I really loved working there and to this day, it remains one of my favorite jobs.
One of the few drawbacks about working there (other than the fact that my apartment had the aroma of a fondue restaurant, which is to say that it smelled like burnt peanut oil) was that every time that I met a girl and she found out where I worked, she always wanted to go there for dinner on our first date, so I ended up eating a lot of fondue, but at least it ensured a sure thing and nothing beats a sure thing except for maybe two sure things, but since I know I'll never get two sure things, I'll settle for one. I can't tell you how many times I have had the exact same date; dinner at the fondue restaurant with the same first date conversations, flirting and copious amounts of wine, followed by a short trip to my "special spot", the stone jetty at Haulover Beach and a romantic walk in the moonlight where I'd pull one of my signature moves and then finish it up with a quick drive back to my apartment to seal the deal. It was nice and it was a little something special for both of us; a nice romantic evening for her and another hash mark in the win column for me. Too much of the same thing though, even a good thing and I hate to say it, even too much of a sure thing can start to get a little boring, which it did and after a while it became my own personal Groundhog Day.
Click on the link above to watch the full movie on YouTube.
Fondue is a very time consuming meal where you actually have to cook your own food and pay for the privilege of doing so.
To be honest, the only thing that you actually end up cooking yourself are the entrees.
I can make an amazing cheddar cheese fondue. If you'd like me to post the recipe, leave a comment below.
The cheese fondue is actually made tableside by your Waiter/Waitress.
Most of our customers would order the standard three course Combination Dinner for two which consisted of a cheese fondue appetizer, salads, and an entree platter that was a mixed bag of meats and seafood (chicken, steak, salmon and shrimp). Chocolate fondue for dessert was an a la carte item that was a must have and everyone ordered the chocolate fondue.
An intimate setting, lots of wine and some sweet, warm chocolate will get her motor running, even if you can't.
Romantic, isn't it? Meet my next ex.
The length of time spent on dinner in the restaurant would usually range from two to three hours, limiting the amount of tables that you could work in an evening and having an impact upon the tips you could earn and while the food was fairly expensive, we also pushed wine and that's where the real money was. Selling wine would pump up your check average and more importantly, your tips. If you could sell two or three bottles of wine to the majority of your tables, you were sure to go home with pockets full of cash (actually, you would make it to the bar with pockets full of cash, how much you'd still have left when you got home would be a different story and staying drunk can get pretty expensive). The only other way to make money there was by relying on your personality and by engaging with your customers, meaning that you had to be personable and, well, a little weird. You were a part of the experience, part of the entertainment, like your own little one man Off-Broadway Show. Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me fucking sing and dance for you. A little shuffle and fucking jive. Yeah, I can just picture myself getting all jiggy with it. I'll get started on choreographing a routine right now.
I got moves, mothafuckaz! I got mad fuckin' skillz.
And personable? Me? Whatthefuckever. Hell, I took a personality test once and the results came back negative. I think That I'm more of a curmudgeon than a personable person and I'm also pretty much convinced that I'm just a fucking asshole more than anything else. Have I ever mentioned that I also have the honor and the privilege of being the most well adjusted person that I know? And I could never be considered weird, right?
Shut the fuck up, it was just a rhetorical question.
So, while I might not have much in the way of a personality, I've certainly got bullshit in abundance. Bucket loads of bullshit, that is. Yes, yes indeed. Shit Slingin' Steve, that's me. It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it, don't you think?
One late afternoon, it was my turn to come in early to help open the restaurant up and get it ready for dinner service (we only served dinner). Coming in early was good, because it meant that you would be the first person to start making money and it also meant that theoretically you would be the first person out the door and headed home. I say theoretically because the reality of the situation was such that you could theoreticallybe the last person out the door and headed home as well. It would all depend upon when your last table chose to leave and if they decided to camp out, well, you were screwed. That's just the hazards of the business, life isn't fair and all of that shit, but if I'm making money, I'll stay until the end of time.
As an aside and in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that the term "headed home" was really just a euphemism for going out and drinking all night.
As I was clocking in and getting ready to start setting up the restaurant, there were a rapid series of loud knocks at the front door, which was quickly answered by the owner, Dan (not his real name). He spoke to someone at the door for a few minutes and then he walked over to me and asked me if I felt like taking an early table, further explaining that they only wanted to order the chocolate fondue. Dan said that that the decision was completely up to me, he didn't care and that I didn't have to take care of them if I didn't want to. It didn't take me very long to set up the restaurant and I could certainly wait on a dessert table while taking care of everything else. Besides, it was extra money in my pocket with very little effort on my part and it was good customer service. I told Dan that it wouldn't be a problem. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
Dan walked back to the front door and returned with a party of five in tow. Strutting like preening peacocks through the empty restaurant were three generations of the same family; an older couple, a younger couple and their cute little three year old son who was literally bouncing down the aisle howling chants of, "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!" over and over again and he definitely wasn't using his inside voice. His father began chanting along with him.
Seriously?
A three year old doing that is obnoxious enough, but a thirty-something year old grown man jumping up and down and screaming, "Chocolate!" at the top of his lungs belongs in the theater of the absurd.
Don't get me wrong, I've always done silly, stupid, funny and cheesy stuff with my kids, but this...
This...
Twenty years later and I still don't have words.
My waiter early warning system began to twitch. Bad. Really bad. Like when your balls really itch something fierce and you're with a bunch of people and you just can't scratch your fucking nuts and that makes the itch even worse type bad. Glory be.
It was pretty obvious that they were going to be a bit difficult.
I began to question the life choices that led me to this moment as my ever present and delightful smile began to crack and crumble.
It was also pretty obvious that they were rich. You could just smell the money on them, they absolutely, positively reeked of it. I hoped that because we were going out of our way to accommodate them that I had a pretty good chance of getting a nice fat tip. So far it looked like mostly shaft.
I'm not exactly sure whom they were showing off for in an empty restaurant, but after the spectacle of their grand entrance, Dave tried to seat them in one of the booths on the main aisle but they would have none of it, complaining that the table might be good enough for the common riffraff, but it certainly wouldn't do for them. Y'know, because they were exalted royalty and shit. After flitting from seat to seat like Goldie Locks looking for the perfect chair that felt just right for her big, fat ass and after a few extra minutes spent fondling different tables, they finally found one that was deemed worthy of their greatness and just as they started to settle themselves in they realized that the little one was missing.
The mother freaked out.
"Where's my baby?" she shrieked. "Has anyone seen my baby?"
Well... maybe the dingo ate your baby...
Burp...
Great. Nothing like having to wait on arrogant, rich, entitled assholes who can't be bothered to take care of their children. This was going to be fun. Lots of fun. Lots of fucking fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Fuck me.
We split up into search parties and everyone fanned out through the restaurant searching for the kid. After a few minutes, his mother found him hiding underneath one of the tables in the back and she actually bribed him to come back with her. This just kept getting better and better.
The elder gentleman, obviously the patriarch of the family, barked at me and ordered me to bring a booster seat for his grandson. I think he said something along the lines of, "Hey you, we need a booster seat over here."
Yeah. Sure. Fuck you, buddy.
I went to go fetch the booster seat like a good little bitch and then returned to the table, handing it to the child's father. Nobody bothered to thank me. Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me. Assholes.
I started to introduce myself, but the older guy quickly interrupted me. Dick move, buddy.
The older guy then proceeded to explain to me that they were on their way to the airport to drop off their son, daughter-in-law and grandson and that they were in a rush. He told me that he and his wife were regulars and that I must be new because I didn't recognize them (I had been there a year and I had never seen them before and Dan hadn't recognized them either). He and his wife had told the younger couple about how wonderful the fondue was and had promised to take them to dinner but had then never bothered, but figured they were at least entitled to have some chocolate fondue on their way out of town. Oh, and they were in a hurry, so could I, you know, hurry things along?
Okay, you're in a hurry, I get that, so shut the fuck up and order and stop wasting everyone's time by running your fucking mouth.
While he's droning on to me and I'm mentally picturing myself choking the living shit out of him, I look at the table and notice that his darling little grandson has dumped the contents of the salt and pepper shakers onto the table and he now has two little piles sitting directly in front of him. The little bastard looked at me, smiled smugly and shoved the piles of salt and pepper all over the table. That little shit. No one corrected him or said a word.
That's total bullshit.
I bit my tongue. What the fuck did I get myself into this time?
I assured them that I can get them out of the restaurant quickly and believe me, all I want to do is get them the fuck out of the restaurant. I ask them if I can get them started with something to drink and they all ask for water with lemon and they want one for the kid, too, because of course, five glasses of free. Free work that I won't get tipped on. Plus the old guy, who also asked for coffee, because of course he needs a drink for both hands and because of course I haven't had a chance to make any coffee yet and when I informed His Majesty that I would be making a fresh pot and that it would take a few minutes he mentioned something about my being incompetent under his breath.
Fuck that motherfucker. I wanted to punch that arrogant sonofabitch in his arrogant pompous fucking pie hole but I kept my cool, did an about face and went off to get their drinks. I wanted to poison them and I would have, but that's a lot of bodies to hide and I drove a motorcycle. The logistics weren't looking good.
Oh, and we didn't have any fucking kids cups, either, but that was just too bad now, wasn't it? We just weren't that kind of restaurant. Contrary to popular belief, children and large pots of boiling liquids aren't always a very good mix.
I returned to the table with their drinks, passed them out, took their order and turned it into the kitchen. By this time the coffee was ready and I poured a cup and brought it out to the table where I noticed that the little bastard had gotten his filthy little hands on the sugar caddie and had torn open all of the sugar and Sweet & Low packets, dumped them out and scattered them all over the table. It was like he was playing in a sandbox of sugar. That shit was everywhere. Again, no one corrected him or said a word.
That's some great fucking parenting skills right there, folks.
I was perilously close to the edge. No amount of money could make up for this shit.
The old guy asked me if I had any straws for the baby to play with.
Oh shit... Oh no, you din't...
All rational thought went out the window. I fucking lost it. I snapped. Before I even realized what I was saying, I had blurted out, "What's the matter? You can't afford any toys?"
I thought this guy's fucking head was going to explode; like he was going to have an aneurysm or something, His face turned beet red, veins popped out all over his forehead, his mouth fell open and then he freaked the fuck out. I mean he really freaked the fuck out.
"You sonofabitch," he spat at me, "You motherfucker. I demand to speak to the owner. I demand to speak to the owner right fucking now!"
"Yes, sir. I'll be more than happy to get him for you," I said with an evil smirk. Dude should have been thankful that I hadn't stabbed him through the eye with one of the fondue forks. Not only am I Italian, but I know people that know people who know other people that have some friends who might or might not know someone who may or may not be in the mob. but his cousin has a neighbor who knows someone that says he probably might be but he's not certain.
I went to Dan's office in the back and I explained the situation to him. I think he may have been a little pissed off at me and I wasn't completely sure if he had believed my side of the story, but he had to at least half believe me because he already knew they were assholes. I started to worry about losing my job. I liked my job. I liked my job a lot. Not only did I like my job, but I made an obscene amount of money at my job and I really wanted to continue making that money which enabled me to not only ay for my basic necessities, but enabled me to live a fairly lavish lifestyle of expensive booze and cheap women. I decided that I did not want to lose my job.
Dan stormed out of the office and into the dining room. As he approached the family I could see that he was starting to get angry as he took in the full extent of the mess that covered the table. Better yet, the people had now switched tables, because the little bastard had managed to spill his glass of water, leaving a nasty, sticky paste of a mess, so they had changed tables and given the nasty little shit another sugar caddie full of "toys" to play with and which said little shit was currently in the process of tearing open and dumping upon the table.
Dan was so angry I thought his hair plugs were going to pop out. I swear I saw them bulging and ready to fly off like mini mortars on the Fourth of July. I'd never seen him this angry.
I felt a tingle in my mangina. I wish I'd had some popcorn.
The rude, pompous and arrogant old fucker started to yell at my boss, but Dan cut him right off.
"Shut up and get out," Dan said.
The old guy looked confused and then angry. His face wasn't red anymore, it was positively purple. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Dan cut him off before he could utter a word.
"Get out," Dan repeated. "Get out now. Take your things and take your brat and get the hell out of my restaurant. Now!"
I swooned. Dave was my hero. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make his babies.
All of them started to shout at once but Dan would have none of it.
"Get out. Get out now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested." Dan was pissed. Go Dan! You sexy motherfucker.
"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" screamed the cranky old fuck.
The old man threatened to sue Dan and Dan laughed in his face. The old man threatened to ruin him, the restaurant and little ol' me.
I did a double take.
Who? Me? Huh? What the hell did I do?
They mumbled and muttered and acted indignant and violated all the way to the door, but they got out. We never heard from their lawyer and we never heard from them again, either. Dan's business didn't get ruined either. As for me, I'd been ruined long before and frankly, I had no fucks left to give.
Bye, bye motherfuckers.
After they left, Dan and I looked at each other and we just shook our heads and laughed. He helped me clean up the mess that they had left and we were able to get the restaurant open on time.
The point that I'm trying to make here is that if someone bends over backwards to accommodate your ass, be gracious, thankful, well-mannered and appreciative instead of being rude, demanding, ill-bred and a complete douchebag. Make sure your children behave. If not, karma is going to turn around and bite you right in the dick and I'll be the one laughing about it.
If you liked this story, please give this one a chance:
One last thing, please leave a comment on the post, here on the blog, Stroke me ego or I swear I will find where you live, get naked and stand outside of your house.
Btw, what happens when you inject human DNA into a goat?
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