Tonight, around 7 pm, I had some of a group come in.  It was 2 ghetto as hell adults, and 6 ghetto as hell brats.  They all tried to pile into a 4-top booth.  They told me they were waiting for more people to arrive.  They merged into the booth right next to the first one.

“Would you all like me to come back after you’ve gotten settled in?” I ask nicely, thinking to give them a few minutes and they’d be ready to at least order drinks.  I’m trying to give them menus as I ask this.

“You can take them menus away, we ain’ gon’ be eatin’.” LaShantara (real name) tells me.

“I’m sorry?”

“We jus’ gon’ get some dranks from da bah,” she replies, looking at me as if I’m stupid.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you’re sitting at my table you’ll have to order all your drinks from me.”

“But my husban’ ovah at da bah stahtin a tab right now.”

“Once again, you’ll have to order your drinks from me if you’re sitting at my table.”

“Well you gon’ have ta’ come back, we got some mo’ people comin’.”

I leave them alone for a few minutes, and check on some of my other tables.  When I go back, the parents of the heathen children are nowhere to be found, and there’s now a total of 12 children split between the two booths.

“Where did all the adults go?” I ask the brats.

“Dey playin games.  Brang us some shirley temples.”  Let me just jump at your beck and call, little 9 year old fucker.

“I can’t serve you without your parents being over here.”  This is not just something I don’t want to do, it’s a company policy.  Minors have to have adults.

“What you mean you can’t serve us?”  I try to explain the policy to the kids, and tell them they have to find their parents.  “We ain’ gettin up, day said ta stay heah so nobody else gets da table.” one of the little girls, I think her mother called her Chaquitta, like the banana, told me while swiveling her neck.

“Well you can’t sit here without your parents.”  One of them runs off to find the adults of their group.  When he returns, he has LaShantara in tow.

“What da Hell you mean you can’t serve dem witout us bein heah.”

“It’s a company policy ma’am, kids have to have parents at the table with them at all times.  They have to be supervised at all times by an adult.”

“You a adult, get dem what day want!”  LaShantara orders.

“I can’t do that ma’am, and this is not a daycare.  You’re going to have to sit here with them or you guys have to give up these two tables for people who want to eat.”  That pisses her off, and a manager gets involved.  I win, bitch, once again.

She gets pissed at me again when I tell her that unless they order food, they can’t have alcohol.  Tennessee state law says that if there’s a minor at the table, an adult cannot drink unless they eat also.  I never knew about it until the restaurant got fined for it a few months ago.  They ordered a few drinks from the bar, and had them summarily taken away when they refused to order food with all the brats they had.

I’ve also started wondering what gives parents the idea that we’re babysitters.  I don’t babysit for my friends unless the kids in question are still in diapers and I can put them to bed without worry.  I’m not paid 2.13 an hour to keep watch on a group of ghetto assed little rugrats any more than I’m paid 2.13 an hour to keep watch on a group of little redneck rugrats, or any other fucking rugrats.  I get paid to serve tables, while following company policy.  Parents who think they’re going to bring a big group of kids out and have them lounge at a table, opening all my sugar packets and dumping them on the table, and pouring out all my salt and pepper while they get drunk at the bar and play games themselves, are sadly mistaken.  They are irresponsible, and shameful.

Parents need to learn that if they’re going to come out drinking, they need to have a designated driver, especially if they have a ton of kids with them.  I’m not going to allow them to drink without eating, nor am I going to allow them to get shit-faced while their kids sit at a table watching it happen.  That’s far too dangerous, and it’s against the law.

I’m also learning that any table that orders the following drinks will leave nothing for a tip:  Amaretto Sour, Patron, Hennessey, Remy Martin, or any frozen drink.  Every table tonight that stiffed me had some combination of those drinks on the tab, and I guarantee you it had nothing to do with my service.  I was cheerful, on time, polite.  I don’t understand why they think it’s okay to not leave me a tip after drinking like that.  Are they just stupid, or are they just assholes?

These are the people who generally order those drinks: Amaretto Sours are ordered by ghetto women with big ankle holders.  They order them over and over again, until they’re cut off, then they get pissed off because you won’t give them any more.  They talk with major ghetto accents, and are evil creatures.

Patron.  Ghetto white guys and ghetto black guys.  They order them in shots and think that because they’re ordering expensive shots that they look cool.  The women that order Patron in any form are usually wearing next to nothing, with long dangly earrings, and have braids.  They’re often lesbadaggas, very butch lesbadaggas.  The guys usually have their pants hanging around their asses, and are wearing those hoodie jackets with the constant patterns all over them.

Hennessey is ordered by ghetto guys who again think it makes them look cool to order it, but they never order it right.  Hennessey is a cognac that should be enjoyed, sipped from a brandy snifter.  It shouldn’t be drank as a shot, it shouldn’t be put on the rocks with coke/sprite/any other kind of soda.  It’s ordered by the guys who think they look cool dressing like a pimp, when they’re really just trying to impress their girlfriends that are ordering the Amaretto Sours.

Remy Martin:  see Hennessey.

Frozen Drinks:  Women order these because they like slushies.  Drinking a margarita on the rocks is an unspeakable offense.  Redneck crackheads and fat ghetto women (black and white) are the ones who order the most frozen drinks.  Redneck crackhead women order mainly creamy frozen drinks, pina colodas and the like.  Ghetto women tend to order more of the slushy ones, frozen margaritas, frozen hurricanes and daquiris.  They think that we should be able to make any flavor of daquiri they want, when in reality most places will only make a couple of flavors…usually strawberry, peach, and lime.  

This brings us to the snotty college kids.  Flavored vodka is the thing for these kids, and shooters.  They don’t tip on these things, mind you, but they order a ton of them without getting overly drunk due to their heavy party constitution.  God forbid you don’t carry more than a couple of flavored vodka to mix with their redbull.

“Have you got strawberry vodka?”

“No, ma’am, we only have citrus, apple, and cherry.”

“What about grape?”

“No, ma’am, we only have citrus, apple, and cherry.”

“Well don’t you have any other flavors?”

“No, ma’am, we only have citrus, apple, and cherry.”

They don’t take no for an answer.  It doesn’t matter what you actually have, they think you’re lying about it.  They think you’re trying to keep them from having the type of vodka you want.  And that’s just the women.  The men like Jager bombs.  Lots of Jager bombs.  No tips, but lots of Jager bombs.

I’m just sick of people thinking they don’t have to tip.  Fuck you, fuck your mom, fuck your uncle and your little fucking brats.

Once again, don’t come out and think you’re going to get drunk on my time while I’m watching your kids, it’s not gonna happen.  I’m not your fucking babysitter, leave the brats at home if you want to drink.

That’s enough ranting for tonight.

Ribeye

Related Posts:

Related posts:

1. The Bastards and Bitches of the Prom, Part Two: Saturday Night
2. The Bastards and Bitches of the Prom, Part One: Friday Night
3. Why is it (almost) always women?!