I’m sorry, but just because you’ve gotten out of high school it doesn’t make you a grown up.

This past shift, I had more teenagers than I’ve ever had to wait on in one night.   7 that tried to order alcohol, 3 fake id’s, 1 that tried to pull the “I forgot it at home, boss” routine,  and the other three just didn’t think I would actually check their ids.  I got some kind of threat from them all as I escorted them out to the parking lot.

What is it that makes kids these days think they’re grown up?

I’m also learning more and more that parents today are just worthless.  They let their kids run all over them.  I had a 7 year old tell his mom to “shut the hell up” when she told him to finish his dinner.  She didn’t say another word, except to apologize to me, “He’s had it rough”.  I told her that was a lame excuse, and told him to apologize to her or I’d take away his game card.  He told me to shut up.  I took away his game card.  His mother privately thanked me later.

A 10 year old running through our game room, little fat kid.  I have SOME sympathy for little fat kids, because I was a little fat kid, but I wasn’t that fat.  I know he needed the exercise, but did he have to try to get it at my job?  I told him to stop running. “Fuck off, asshole, you can’t tell me what to do!”  So I grabbed him by the arm, and made him take me to his parents.  “They over at the movies.  They let me come in here and play while they was gone.”  Well then, little brat, let’s let security hold on to you.  I had the security guards drag his parents out of their movie.  I was cussed out.  “Sorry guys, but we’re not your personal babysitters.  Take your kid to the movie with you or something but if I catch him in here without you, I’ll kick him out and mall security will kick you all out.”   Cussed out again.  I just love my job.

Taking a sabbatical to the toilet, I am enjoying the combination of waste release with the nice taste of a marlboro light.  I’m reading blogs on my phone.   Suddenly the lights start to flip on and off.  I hear giggling.  I hear more giggling.  A child.  Then I hear a deeper voice laughing, saying “Good job, son, that’s how the lights work.”  I yell from my stall, “then teach him how to work the lights at home, not at a restaurant.”  Cussed out from behind a bathroom stall door.

On the plus side, I did serve some awesome people.  I made some great money tonight.  I’m choosing to not mention my bad tables, because I figure my blog is dark enough without my mentioning trash EVERY post.  So I’ll talk about the trash next time.  I still have the final Rules for Eating Out post coming as well, so stay tuned.

Thank you to all the readers here, this site has reached 3200 visits since this past Monday, the 24th.  Keep reading everyone, and I’ll keep writing

Ribeye

The time has come, after all of the 4 page comments, for you, Springs1, to think about some things, take some things into account.

You say that you don’t mind if a server upsells you before your order.  What’s the harm in a server asking you if you’d like your margarita to be a top shelf margarita when you just say a margarita on the rocks.  We usually know what we’re talking about, and would rather you have a good tasting margarita than a house one.

In my post, I mentioned about the straws.  You quoted that mention of straws, yet you failed to elaborate on it other than “In the chain restaurants I go to a lot, they DO bring straws”.  Then you go off into a diatribe about fine dining vs. casual dining.

You’ve only quoted three people out of hundreds of thousands of consumers that happen to not like their server to be friendly.  It also seems that you had to search for those quotes.  Trust me, we know the limits.  If someone’s on a date, we do only what needs to be done.  If it’s an anniversary dinner, again, we do only what needs to be done.  If it’s a family, or friends going out to eat, yes, we’re friendly and chatty with them.  When people are in a bad mood, sometimes it’s the only way to make them happy.

You’d also be hard pressed to find a server who will willingly sit and chat with you after you’ve ordered your food but before it’s been entered into the POS systems.  We want your food to be delivered just as fast as you want it to be delivered.  We don’t want you camping because the food takes too long.  We want money.  Long food, regardless of who is at fault, is always ALWAYS blamed on the server, and our money suffers as a consequence.

Who are you to say that good servers don’t have time to chat when you’re slammed.  Sometimes, we get caught up, slammed or not, and we have time to take a minute or two.  That minute or two we spend with you isn’t going to affect how fast the expo pulls your food out of the window, or the bartender gets to the ticket to make your drink.  That minute or two is in all honestly, not usually going to affect your wait time, so stop whining about it, or just tell the server you’d rather be left alone, that gives them more time to talk to the guests who actually enjoy their presence.

With the change issue.  It pissed you off.  Don’t come to my restaurant then.  Most servers (with the exception of those who actually RUN A CASH DRAWER) are either going to round up or down on your change.  If we owe you 5.06, and only give you 5 and a nickel, it’s because we don’t have time to hunt down that sole penny.  Most servers don’t carry change down to the penny, and at a lot of restaurants, it’s in the menu (Jilians) that servers do NOT carry change, and that your change will be rounded up or down to the dollar.  If we owe you 6.70 and we give you 7.00 back, don’t whine about it.  It’s not the restaurant’s money, it’s coming out of our pocket.  We turn in what is owed at the end of the night, and what is left is our money.  We lose out of our money when we do that, but a lot of times, time is a factor in our change making, and we’re not going to sacrifice another guests service over a penny, or a nickel or something that most people don’t care about anyway.  I’ve not had one complaint about it, and this is with me telling the guests that “Hey, I’m short about 9 cents, it’ll be a few minutes before I can hunt it down.  Here’s the rest of your change from your hundred dollar bill”.  Any server who changes a tip on a credit card is reprehensible and should be in jail.  That’s fraud.  But a penny? If you’re going to whine and cry over a penny, then we don’t need you as a guest in the first place.

I’m seeing some things in your overcharge list.  Like the 4 cents.  You bitched over 4 cents (8 if you combine the two).  25 cents for bbq.  Most places  actually do charge for the BBQ and you just got a server that wanted to try for a bigger tip.  Good servers are consistent, and charge what they’re supposed to charge.  My job charges 50 cents to SUBSTITUTE BBQ for another sauce.  Do we agree with it? No.  Do people get pissed when they’re charged for it? Yes.  Do I explain it? Yes.

You got an old menu, your husband got the new one.  Honest mistake, doesn’t mean that you get special treatment over that 50 cents.  It happens.

Most servers will be honest if they forget to put something into the computer, and will gladly have it taken off and get you a free dessert afterwards.  Don’t make such a big deal, mistakes happen, even when you write down the order.

You’re calling a server who admitted a mistake stupid.  How bitchy can we get.  Do you go out just to make peoples lives miserable?

Your Dr. Pepper to coke story has been posted over and over again here in your comments, however, there’s not many people who change their soft drink like that.  Most people are happy to have their drinks refilled at all times.

In closing Springs1, you seem to be a bit ornery, and you and your husband should just stop going out.  Or is he the more understanding one, like most couples with an overbearing, picky, snotty wife, that is embarrassed to be out with you?  I didn’t want to make this personal honey, but you and your long winded comments about how serving should be when you’ve never done it before more than having a busy counter at the donut store has just pushed me over the edge.  I’ve got people e-mailing me asking me to block you from commenting.  Asking me to spam your comments.  I don’t do it.  But don’t think for a minute I’m going to continue allowing you to bash servers over simple mistakes.  Bash them when you go out to eat, and stop telling us how it’s supposed to be.  Get a serving job, and rethink things.  You’re preconceived notions of how it works will fly out the window, and I highly doubt you could handle waiting on people like yourself.  Most people like you cant cut it as servers.

Ribeye

On Friday and Saturday nights, after 10 pm, my place of business starts charging a 3 dollar cover to get in.  On Friday and Saturday night, after the 3 dollar cover starts, it becomes a liquor tasting of sorts.  It never fails.  It’s every Friday and Saturday night after the cover starts.  Let’s begin

Three different tables in one night.  All ghetto women.  Two ghetto black women, and one supremely trashy ghetto as FUCK white woman.

Table 1: 22 year old African American male, 21 year old African American female.  Strong smell of Black and Mild + some skunky as hell Marijuana (I’m a reformed pothead, what can I say).  Young man orders a pint of Bud after bitching me out for not carrying Bud Ice or Busch.  Young woman orders a candy apple martini (butterscotch liqueur, apple pucker, vodka).  I deliver drinks.  I take orders, including all the possible changes they could think of.  I input orders into computer system.  I start walking to new table, when I notice the female, we’ll name her Skukeesha, waving at me to come back.  I veer to the left, and make a stop at the table.

“Something I can help you with ma’am?” I ask.  “Yea, dis drank taste nasty.  I wanna try sumpin else,” Skukeesha replies.  “Do you have something in mind?”  “I wanna try this _____ (my restaurants version of a top shelf long island, name blanked to protect my employment).  I take candy apple martini from table, sit on end of bar and inform bartender of change in beverage.  Return to table with beverage.  Begin to walk off, hear coughing.  Turn around, and see a third of drink missing.  “This one nasty too!  Ya’ll don’t know what ya’ll durin!  Bring me ______ (another signature drink, blanked to protect employment.  Made with 3 brands rum, peach schnapps, some juice and grenadine).  “Right away, ma’am.” I take drink back to bar,  make addition to bill, retrieve drink, return to table.  This time, Ribeye is smarter and doesn’t move.  “Try this out and see how you like it.”  She takes a sip.  “Dis alright.”  “I’ll be by to check on you in a little bit guys, enjoy your drinks.”   Not 2 minutes later, Skukeesha is tapping on my arm while I’m at another table.  “Dis just ain’t good.  Bring me a Amaretto Souah”  Drink is half gone.  “Ma’am, I’ll take it back, but I can’t get it taken off the bill.”  “Well why da fuck not?!  I ain’t drank it!”   “Because you drank half of it, and I’ve already had two other drinks comped off of your bill.  I’m sorry ma’am, but this isn’t a wine tasting.  Please go back to your table, and I’ll be right there with your Amaretto Sour.”  Properly chastised, Skukeesha returns to her table, my other guests laughing their asses off.

No tip from Skukeesha or her boyfriend Oranjalo.

Table 2:  Two young women.  One Latina, one African American.  25 and 24 respectively.  We’ll name African American woman Kenyatta.

Young Latina orders a top shelf margarita.  Young Kenyatta orders a frozen watermelon margarita.  I warn Kenyatta it’s going to be nasty frozen, she insists that she gets it this way all the time.  I input drinks, and retrieve them from bartender.  Return to table and deliver.  Young Latina loves her margarita, says it tastes just like her Uncle Manuel’s *yes, actual statement and name*.  I ask Ms. Kenyatta how her drink was.  “Dis is nasty.  Take it back and off my bill”  There was already a quarter of drink missing from the glass.  I remove drink.  Before I walk off, “Bring me a cosmopolitan.”  “Yes, ma’am.”  I go through all the motions, dropping off old drink and bringing new.  I walk off after wishing ladies well.  About 10 minutes passes, and I go back to the table.  “How are we doing, ladies?  Ready for another cocktail?”  I look at both drinks, both are empty.  Young Latina, who I’m going to name Maria (it’s a pretty name) is smiling, and wants another of the same.  Kenyatta is scowling.  “That cosmopolitan was just nasty.  I ain’t paying for it.”  “But ma’am, you drank the whole thing.”  “But I ain like it!”  “But you drank the whole thing.  If you didn’t like it, you should have told me before you drank the whole thing.  I’m not having it comped, I’m sorry.  Now, what would you like to drink next?”  “Bring me a Amaretto Souah.”  I unconsciously roll my eyes, Maria sees me and bursts out laughing.  She’s embarrassed by her friends actions.  I get Amaretto sour, and another piece of me dies inside.

Table 3: Young African American Family.  21 year old male, 22 year old ghetto as hell white trash female, and 7 year old child.  Their child.  No , I’m not kidding. 

On account of her fat, I’m going to name this un-be-weave-able woman Miss Bertha.  I don’t know why, but Miss Bertha sounds like a fat name.  Kid orders a virgin daquiri.  Great, let’s piss off the bartender during the cover charge rush.  Father, we’ll call him Shi-thead (get it), orders a strawberry shake.  More to piss off bartender.  Miss Bertha, a verrrrrry fat, blonde with literal black colored hairweave corn rowed down the back of her head into a Weavlett (a weave mullet). “I wanna Why Ziffadel” Shoot me.  We don’t have awesome high class snotty person wine, but we can do better than Beringer White Zin.  At least get some Kendall Jackson or some other working class wine.  Not white zin.  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll just need to see your ID.”  “Why I gotta show ya dat?  I had to show it to get in!”  “Legally ma’am, I still have to see it to serve you drinks, and I”m not losing my job over your white zin.”  She throws it at me, she’s legal, and I get their drinks.  I don’t notice the cork floating in her faux wine.  “There a fuckin bug in my wine, is you tryin to make me sick?”  I look closely, and see that it’s cork, and tell her such.  “Dat ain no dayum cork, dat a bug.”  “No, ma’am, it’s cork.  I’ll gladly get you another glass.”  “I dont’ want no wine no mo.  Brang me a screwdriva.”  I get her screwdriver, and bring it back.  “Dis grey goose right?”  “No ma’am, it’s house vodka.”  “It posed to be grey goose, urbody know dat a screwdriva made wit grey goose!”  “No, ma’am, our screwdrivers are made with house vodka unless you tell me otherwise.”  “Den get me one with grey goose, fuck, why you can’t just do yo damn job right!”  At that point, I had her kicked out.  I’m not going to put up with that much abuse.

Why is it that Friday and Saturday night, once cover starts, the trash comes out in full force?  Why do ghetto women insist on tasting every drink on the menu, and try to not pay for what they drink?  Do you really think that drinking a whole drink and telling me you don’t like it is going to make it free?  Here’s a hint.  Stay at home and drink some Bud Ice, and leave me alone.

Ribeye

Hello again everyone, and welcome back.  Today, I’m going to be talking about the plague of Obese people.

Obesity…let’s just put it like it is, grotesquely fat people, are along with the ghettofied trash in the most hateful people you’ll ever meet category.  They come into your restaurant, rolling around in their patented “Hovaround” technology and getting mad that they cant get a booth they can fit into.  They are breathing heavy from the strain of pushing the forward button on their chair.  They’re dripping sweat, they have flaps of skin upon flaps of skin.  They generally smell funny.  And they are without a doubt the crankiest people other than pregnant women or old people that you’ll ever have to deal with.

Ok, maybe I’m being a bit harsh.  Sometimes there’s one out of 50 that are in good spirits.  Usually not.  They are created in a world of McDonalds greasy food, and the most exercise they ever get is lifting the remote control to change from Montel to Oprah.  Then they get on their forklifts and come out to order a salad, 3 entrees, 2 desserts, and a diet coke or unsweet tea.  They are the type of people who ask you for 4 different kinds of dressings, and extra of each and every condiment to drown that salad and breadsticks they demanded you bring.  Since when does being fat mean you should get whatever you want?  It’s not our fault you decided to eat yourselves to the size of small elephants, so don’t take it out on us.

Take this example.  A few nights ago, I had a table of very very very large women.  Our booths in the game room are made to fit 4 normal sized adults.  These were 4 quadra-sized women.   They chose to NOT rent those little hourly Hovarounds from the mall, which while I respect the attempted exercise, maybe they should have.  They walked in, and went to one of my tables.  In our game room, we have only booths.  No chairs.  These women decided they were going to try to fit into a 4-top booth.  These women weighed easily 1500 pounds between them.  About 10 minutes later, these women had finally succeeded in stuffing themselves into the booth.  There wasn’t too much of the table left once they got in though, as their skin and gigantic breasts were laid across it.  This was a busy saturday night.  I’m telling you all of this because I need you to imagine the setting.   I’m going to name these women.  First, we have the great lardy ghetto white woman….we’ll call her Giganta.  Then we have the really ghetto black woman, with braids stringing off of her head and eyeballs bulging out of it…..we’ll call her Lardametria.  Third, we have another really ghetto black woman, this one with hair about 4 feet off the top of her head, looks like some weave had been wrapped around a few large tumblers, weave you could throw a tennis ball into like a carnival game.  We’ll call her Aquanetta.  Then we have the old one.  The oooooollllllllldddddd old old old white woman who has lived in the ghetto all of her life, hasn’t had a job since 90 years ago when she was maybe 20.  The one with the huge fatty tits that sag down nearly to the ground, that uses a cane to walk, and is like your mean third grade teacher that used to beat your hand with a ruler.  We’re going to call her Blubberella.

I approach the table with a smile on my face.  “Good evening, Ladies, welcome to _______!  How are ya’ll doin tonight?”  I was a little cheery, it happens sometimes.

Blubberella: “Why do ya’ll only got 2 menus on these tables?”  We only set two menus on the tables automatically, it’s just the way things are done.  We bring more per the number of guests there are.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I’ll be glad to bring you two more menus.  While I’m headed that way, can I go ahead and bring you all some drinks, maybe a long island or 4?”

Aquanetta: “Just go get the menus, we hongry.”

“Right away, ma’am.”  I walk to the service station and retrieve two more menus.  As I’m headed back to the table, I do a quick study.  There is sweat pouring off of these women who are huffing and puffing as they dig for their little cigarette cases.  “Bring us a couple ashtrays,” Lardametria hollered from across the room.   I turn back around to see if there are any ashtrays on the service station, there arent.  We’re going non-smoking next week, so we aren’t keeping them and don’t really care that people are pilfering them.  I have about 8.   I abandon the search figuring they’d rather have the menus…after all, they must be hungry as hell.

“Here are your menus, ladies.  It’s going to be just a ….”

“Where da hell is da ashtrays at?” Lardametria interrupted.  She’s not wasted any time lighting a cigarette.  I can’t say much about smokers, being one myself.  “How we pose to put these out widdout ashtrays?”

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am, it’ll be just a moment on the ashtrays, they’re a little scarce right now being that we’re going non-smoking soon.  I’ll be right back with them.”   I go on the hunt for a few minutes, and after searching the entire game room, I find one unused ashtray.  I end up taking another from the bowling alley.  I get back to the table with them, and I see that Lardametria has dumped out my sugar caddy on the table and proceeded to put her Newport out in said caddy.  “Ma’am, here are your ashtrays.  That is not an ashtray.”

“You was takin to long, what was i pose to do?” she asked.

“wait?  Anyway, what would you ladies like to drink to start with?”  I tried suggesting drinks before, I wasn’t going to do it again.

Giganta: “I won’t a Diet Pepsi with 4 lemons.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but we have Coke products here.  Can I offer you a diet coke or a sprite?”

Aquanetta: “She said she wonted a Diet Pepsi wit fo lemons.”

“And I apologized when I let her know we didn’t have Pepsi products.”

Lardametria: “But there a bottle of pepsi sittin right over dare”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s my pepsi that I bought from our vending machine.  That’s for employees only, not for the guests.”

Lardametria: “But she don wont a damn coke, you need to go get her a diet pepsi.”

“Ma’am, there’s no outside food or drink allowed in here.  Maybe I can offer you a sweet tea?”

“Just bring us fo waddas wit a lodda lemon.”  By this point I have other tables that I need to greet, so I start to walk off to get their waters.

“You aint gonna take our ordas?” Blubberella snarled.  “We hongry.”

They ordered:  A house salad each, with 3 extra ranch dressings apiece, which I charged for.  They also ordered: 3 appetizer wings, an order of cheese sticks, and 2 orders of spinach dip.  Those were just their appetizers.  For their entrees, we’re going to start with Aquanetta.  Aquanetta orders a ribeye steak, extra well done, extra cheese and bacon on her mashed potatoes after bitching me out for the restaurant not having baked potatoes as if it’s my fault.  She also orders a grilled cheese and fries, which is normally on the kids menu but i didn’t have time to argue about it.

Lardametria:  A ribeye steak, extra well done, with fries covered in cheese and bacon, and onion rings (not on the menu but we can make them) instead of the normal other side item.  She also orders a double cheeseburger, also with fries drowned in cheese and bacon, and demanded ranch and sour cream for said fries.

Giganta:  Chose to be more conservative.  Parmesan chicken alfredo with 2 extra alfredo sauces, a side of cheese and bacon covered fries, and a side of mashed potatoes (again I was bitched out for not having baked potatoes).

Blubberella: Roast beef sandwich, fries the same as her friends.  A ribeye steak burnt, potatoes the same as above.   Also, extra order of said potatoes.

As they’re waiting for their food, which is running long because we’re busy, and they ordered enough food for a party of 12, I ended up refilling their waters about 20 times.  Appetizers and salads come out to the table after about 12 minutes.  “We gon need some mo rainch than that,” Aqua snapped at me.  Apparently 3, 4oz. sides of ranch for each of them just wasn’t enough.  So I charge them for 2 more sides each, 8 more sides of ranch.  I run to the kitchen to get it, and by the time I get back, they’re back to smoking.

“These done got cold, you need to get sum mo,” Larda said, pointing at the wings in front of her.  They are drenched in ranch dressing.  Cold ranch dressing.

“Ma’am, honestly, by the time I rering the food, go to the kitchen and ask for a rush, your food is going to be here and you’ll be eating.”

“Den you betta take dem all off our bill,”  Blubberella snapped at me.  I look at the table, and 19 out of 24 wings have been eaten, and bones have been literally sucked dry of both ranch and meat, and the fries that come with those wings are non-existant.  “Ma’am, I’ll take one order of wings off of your bill, but over 3 orders have been eaten completely.  Fries and all.”

“FINE!”  Don’t fucking yell at me you fat assed piece of trash.  I’ll let your food sit back there and get cold.

Aquanetta:  “How much longa it gon’ be for da food?”

“I don’t know ma’am, we’re a bit busy.  It shouldn’t be too much longer, maybe 7-8 minutes.”

“Why the fuck it’s takin so dayum long fo?” Lardametria asked me, lettuce falling out of her mouth.

“Because half of you ordered extra well done, thick ribeyes, that take longer to cook.  We’re also quite busy.  It’s gonna take a minute.”

By this time, when I visit my other tables, I am talking shit about these whales with them and laughing, not caring if they happen to hear me or not.  I was tired of them.  Tired of them to the point that I went to my manager, Mr. J, who is awesome.  I asked him to make someone else take the table over, and ended up pawning these fat bitches off on a server who had just gotten on the floor a few nights before.  That server quit the next night.  I don’t know what they did to her, and I really don’t care, I just couldn’t handle it anymore and I was afraid I was going to cuss them out and get fired.

The only satisfaction I got from that table the entire night was when they tried to leave.  They’d paid out their bill, if I heard Ms. C correctly (the server who took over), they stiffed her.  Aquanetta and Giganta nearly fell to the ground trying to get out of the booth (they were sitting on the outside, ass hanging off the entire time.)  Blubberella and Lardametria however, after cramming themselves into the inside parts of the booth, were NOT able to get out.  We had to find someone skinny enough to get under the table and unbolt it from the floor.  I was told after they left that being under there with the foot smell, the fat fold leg smell, the sweaty obese cooch smell, and the sweaty fat ass smell that he actually felt dizzy.

The moral of the story is, if you’re a bitch to your server, and you’re the size of a small sperm whale, then you’re going to get stuck in your booth and be embarrassed to ever come out again because people are going to see someone having to unbolt the table from the ground.  And you deserve it.  Bitches.

Ribeye

So last night I had to work a private party, with an appetizer buffet set up.  I had to work this party of 24 people by myself, which wasn’t a problem.  The problem started when along with this private party of 24, this private Christian “Lifeway” party of 24, this private Christian “Lifeway” non-drinking party of 24 that only wanted a bunch of diet cokes and dr. peppers, I had to also wait on a party of 9 in our pool room, a party of 4 in the pool room, a party of 8 in the bowling alley, and one of the most ghetto tables I have ever taken sitting on a table behind a lane in the bowling alley.  All this combined makes for a Ribeye that has been cut from the cow, thrown into the ground, and run over by an ancient piece of shit wagon from the Oregon Trail!

First, let’s start with the uber-Christians.  Now I have no problem with anyone’s religious choices, and I’d never bash someone for their religious choice, but please please PLEASE do not do any of the following while I’m waiting on you.

1.)   DO NOT ASK ME TO SIT DOWN AND PRAY WITH YOU BEFORE YOU BITE INTO EACH PIECE OF CHICKEN.

2.)  DO NOT HAVE THE AUDACITY TO ASK ME IF I HAVE BEEN SAVED. 

3.)  DO NOT ASK ME TO JOIN YOU AT YOUR CHURCH.  I DO NOT CARE THAT YOU WERE UP THERE UNTIL 2 A.M. A FEW NIGHTS AGO, SINGING AND SPEAKING IN TONGUES, GETTING THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD.  THAT’S YOUR THING NOT MINE.  I’M NOT AGAINST JESUS, BUT I HAVE MY OWN WORSHIP, AND WORK IS NOT THE PLACE FOR PREACHING.

4.)  DO NOT TELL ME THAT I’M GOING TO BURN IN HELL BECAUSE I’M GAY, BECAUSE I FLIRT WITH THE WOMEN AT MY JOB, BECAUSE I DON’T GO TO CHURCH, OR BECAUSE I ASK YOU TO NOT HECKLE ME ABOUT MY RELIGIOUS BELIEFS.

5.)  THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT RULE:  NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER LEAVE ME A FUCKING PRAYER CARD, A CHURCH PAMPHLET, A LITTLE JESUS COMIC BOOK, OR ANY OTHER CHURCHY TYPE OF FLYER OR PAPERWORK AS YOUR TIP.  YOUR PRAYERS DO NOT PAY MY BILLS, AND WE TEND TO THROW THEM IN THE TRASH, OR PUT THEM ON OTHER PEOPLES TABLES AS JOKES.  WE HATE GETTING THOSE THINGS, AND IT’S ABOUT TIME YOU ALL GOT IT!!!!!!!!!

Now that we’re past those rules.  This “Lifeway” party I was forced into taking, with a gratuity I won’t receive until I get my next paycheck in 2 weeks, broke all 5 of those rules during the course of their 2 hour party.  That’s never happened before, and part of me was pretty impressed with it.

Next, we’ll talk about the big party in the pool room.  No one in the restaurant bothered to tell me that it was another private party, and that I wasn’t supposed to be working it.  I started a tab with them.  Lots and lots of alcohol, that ended up getting transferred away from me, along with that nice big gratuity.  It all got transferred to the two servers who actually served them the food.  I worked for 2 hours getting them drunk and building up a tip that I should have gotten.  I ended up getting about 2/3rds of what I was supposed to get.  Had to split it with 2 other servers.  Wanted to strangle management for not telling me about it.  Wanted to strangle the party for demanding that 2 drinks per person be put on the private party bill for me to not be added onto.   Screwed out of money that I worked hard for.

The party of 4 was fine, tipped great.  The other party in the bowling alley, the 8, tipped on top of the gratuity.

Then we come to the ghetto party.  Not just ghetto but we’re talking, pure and unadulterated trash.  Three women, absorbing stools into their asses while wearing next to nothing and making my stomach churn, and a skinny man with rows in his head, naps sticking out all over the place, and faux gold teeth.   Seeing that I’m busy, they saw fit to tell my general manager that I was just ignoring them, when I’d stopped by and told them I’d be right with them.  While they waited for me, they bitched very loudly about how slow I was, when I was running, running in the literal sense, to get things done.  I make it back to the table after dropping off a tray of about 12 drinks to the pool room.

This is how it started:

“Hey everyone, I’m very sorry about your wait, I’ve been running a bit.”  Nothing like being honest, or so I thought.

“Well it’s about goddamn time you fuckin got here, we’re starving.”  says fat bitch #1.

“Once again, I’m sorry it took so long, but I’m here now.  Can I start you all with a couple of “insert signature drinks here”  I pull out pen and book fully prepared to write down their order.

“How many wangs ya’ll give on a orda”  says fat bitch #2. “We be hongry and you took too long”

“There are 8 wings per order, and you can have them in either mild, spicy or bbq”

“We want fo plate of hot wangs wit sum rainch, and fo wadda”  says fat bitch #1.

“Alright ma’am, would you all like the wings as an appetizer or as your entree?”

Fat bitch #2 rolls eyes. “Jus get da damn food and our wadda, and make it snappy”  Ok bitch, let me stab you now.

I go put the order in, and get their waters.  Fat bitch #3 “What about the lemon? It pose to come wit lemon”

“No ma’am, none of you asked me for lemon.”

Skinny cornrow thug trash #1 “we ain gotta ask, you pose to brang it wit da wadda!”  No, moron, I’m not.

“No sir, water only gets lemon when you ask for it.”

Fat bitch #1 “Then go get the fuckin lemon and quit talkin bout it, dayum, we thursty!  You betta brang a like 2 plates of em.”

Thats alright.  2 plates of lemon for your 4 glasses of water = 4 lemonades rung into the computer.

“Where da fuck our lemon be at?”  Fat bitch #3 hollers over the noise of the music and other guests.

“Right here, ma’am, I just had to ring in your drinks.”   I get to the table, and here’s fat bitch #1 again.  “What you mean you had to rang in our dranks?  Aint wadda free?”

“Water is free ma’am, but lemonade is not.  That’s a lot of lemons you’ve been given, and I’m not giving you the equivalent of 4 lemons for free.  So, you’ll be paying for lemonade, or you don’t get lemons.”  I walked off, and hoped to not see them again until I brought them refills.  As I start to walk off, I see them all get up, and head toward the buffet that was set up for my “Lifeway” party.  I see them grabbing chips, and I see them dipping those chips into the salsa on the table, and then double dip.

“What are you all doing?” I ask, walking up to them and trying to put myself in between the 900 pounds of flesh these women represented with no luck.

“I told you we be hongry, and we is snackin while we wait fo oua wangs” says fat bitch #2.

“This food is not for you.  This food is for THIS private party.  This food is blocked off, and is not for the general public.”

“Well why da fuck not?  We had to wait an hour for you to get to us, and we’s hongry!”  says fat bitch #3.

“Because you didn’t pay for it ma’am, they did.  They didn’t offer you said food, and they’re now complaining to management about your eating their food.  Please return to your table and I’ll have your wings out when they are ready.”

“You cain tell my girls what to do like that.  That public food and they hongry.”

“No, sir, it’s not, and if they are caught eating off of this private parties buffet again, I’m going to escort you all from the building.”

Long story short, they got their wings, they threw the bones on the floor, and they talked to my gm, who made them pay for the lemonades I rang up.  I love being backed up by the managers.

I just love serving.  I still ended up making pretty good money, even though I had trash, and had money taken out of my pocket by people who didn’t know what they were doing, and guests who were just plain stupid.

Until next time,

Ribeye