It’s finally online, so if anyone wants to hear my segment of the show it’s the last 20 minutes or so.

I’m still waiting to hear if I can actually upload and host it here, so until then you can hear it at NewsTalk980.com.

My segment is short, but it was still fun.

Ribeye

For those of you who didn’t know, I had an interview on a radio show today.  It’s a Canadian station, and the interview was centered on tipping/not tipping.  I’m very opinionated in it, and it’s a bit shorter than I’d hoped.  I have to find out if I’m allowed to upload it or if I can only link to it, and when it’s even going to be online, then I can get it on here.

I’ll give an update as soon as I know, and yes, there’s a new post coming I’m just a bit busier than normal.

Ribeye

Welcome back for Part 2 of the Customer series.  As I said, this is probably going to be ongoing for a little bit, and I’m going to dive right into it.

The Ladies who Lunch:  These are the women you see in groups of 3 or more, all meeting at a restaurant within 30 minutes of each other.  They order water with lemon or unsweet tea with plenty of Splenda.  When you get these ladies with their husbands, kids or both, they are usually nice as pie.  They all work for a living and most have done what you’re doing.  However, when you get these ladies into their own little groups, be prepared for Hell on Earth.  They will all need extra things like napkins and lemons, but they’ll only tell you about them one at a time.  There will be one of the group, and only one, who will find something about her meal to bitch about.  She was the one who was hateful back in high school, and the other ladies will be scared to cross her.  If you’ve seen the movie Waiting think of the woman who said, “I don’t mean to be a bitch but….”

The Nascar Watchers:  People who come in to watch the race on your t.v.’s (or t.v. as is the case for some restaurants) will drink.  They’ll try to get cheap beer, like Busch, they’ll try to get cans of beer.  They’ll settle on longnecks.  They’ll arrive an hour before the race starts, and stay for 2 hours after the race is over, talking about the race.  They are loud, they are annoying, they are rednecks.  They don’t believe they’re doing anything wrong by paying for their food and drink after the first hour and a half, then taking up your table for the next two after that.  You’re getting paid a check after all, your tables being empty and turnable don’t matter at all!

The Handicapped Veteran:  The Handicapped Veteran is an older man, one who is now wheelchair bound that fought and was injured in some war that you’ve never heard of.  I’m not talking about WWII or Vietnam either, they flew fighter jets in Qumar and Vietkong.  They’re hateful old men, and they’ll run you over or park in front of your service bar in an instant to order for themselves.  They don’t have much money, because our government sucks ass and has fucked our veterans into becoming just what I’m describing, so they don’t have much to leave for a tip.  They delight in telling stories about the war, sharing with us how lucky we are and how we take our freedom for granted.  (Keep in mind, I have no problem with our veterans.  I’m very proud of them, just as I am proud of our current Armed Forces, they’re just annoying as Hell sometimes.)

The WIC Women:  These women are either totally ghetto or totally redneck.  The ghetto ones are not all black, so please don’t assume that.  These bitches come into the restaurant with 5 or more kids, all of them under 5 years old and all of them running wild.  They are hateful, rude little kids because their mothers spend more time watching Jerry Springer than watching the crotch spawn that came from their loins.  These women ask about all specials, including ones that don’t and never have existed.  They automatically assume that their kids will be eating free of charge, and will lose their temper when said kids meals appear on final bill.  Everything should be free for these women, after all, we already pay for their food stamps, why not their restaurant visit as well?

More coming soon…

Ribeye

I was originally going to do a post on the recent upsurge of hateful people that have been coming out to eat lately and I realized that it was a bit dark and depressing.

Instead, I’m going to do a little feature on the different types of customers we have in restaurants. This one should be fun, and everyone will fit into one of these whether we admit it or not. I got this idea based on the huge diversity of my guests this weekend. These are in no particular order, and I’m not going to list them all in this post, this one’s going to be a short series.

Let’s just jump right in!

The After Churchers: These are the people who come to a restaurant after their Sunday Services and pray for your immortal soul as you serve them.  They say things like “Bless you” and “Praise Jesus” as you deliver drinks, they tell you “God Bless” as they leave you 10% or a prayer card/pamphlet with a dollar in it and an invitation to their church.  They come in wearing suits, bright flowery dresses, and big huge hats.  They are also hateful in their own little way, subtly hinting that you’re not as good as they are because you’re not at church, you’re at work serving them.

The High School Girls:  This breed of customer comes out during the summer and when school is in session, after 4 pm on weekdays.  They often will order water or the Shirley Temple (a hideous concoction of Sprite and Grenadine for those that don’t know), and a side of fries to share between 4 of them.  They never have money for a tip, yet they always seem to have money to buy bags and bags of clothes before they come into your restaurant. (For those of you who are not located in a mall, the clothes will not be present; instead, you will see the most expensive cell phones you’ve ever seen in life, as well as expensive designer bags.)  On rare occasions, this specimen will do more than text one another from one side of the table to another, and they’ll order an appetizer to split.  They drink Ranch Dressing like Springs1 but only if you lie to them and tell them it’s Fat Free Ranch Dressing.  They can also be identified by shrill, nasal voices accompanied by excessive usage of the word “like” and the phrase “Oh my God!”.

The High School Boys:  High School Boys are almost as annoying as High School Girls in that everything they talk about has to do with girls.  They’ll order a Coke and chicken strips, regardless of their looking through the menu for 20 minutes.  They drop lame pick-up lines to the cute server girls, and ask the guys who all they’ve been with.  They question the male servers as to which girl they think is hot, and they lie about their “girlfriends”.  Many of them are virgins, despite boasting to the contrary, and don’t realize that they’re wasting time that should be spent living life and working on school things.

The “Ballah”:  The Ballah is the guy that comes in with his friends, wearing fake gold and brand name clothes all over his body.  His cap will be too big and turned at an angle, his pants will be down below his ass, and his hand perpetually on his junk trying to keep the pants from falling off completely.  He will order a cognac and not order it correctly (i.e. Hennessey and Coke, Remy and Sprite with grenadine).  He’ll flirt with every female he sees no matter their level of attractiveness, and will give a fake number to each one of them.  He’ll flash a wad of cash at you when you approach his table, again when you deliver his food, and will be counting it when you bring the check.  He’ll spend most of his time on the phone or shouting with his “boys”.  They will often run their server into the ground, and will have only a state issued ID card when you ask for proof of age.  When the bill is paid, it will not include a tip no matter how much the bill is.  There will always be a faint aroma of Marijuana when you serve the Ballah.

The Celebrity:  Everyone wants to serve the Celebrity.  The celebrity is the guest who treats you like a normal person, who doesn’t let it show how much they hate autograph hunters even when they’re eating with their family.  They will talk to you and ask about your life, thankful for the break from people asking about theirs.  They have money but they don’t make sure everyone knows it.  They are normally pretty low key, and are the nicest people you’ll ever meet.  Serve a Celebrity properly and they’ll come see you more than once.  The Tennessee Titans (most of them, anyway), Steve McNair, the nerdy looking kid from Hannah Montana, Natasha Bedingfield are just a few examples of celebrity that servers fight for the right to serve.  They tip very well, even when the food is not great, because many of them understand that the server isn’t always at fault.  Some of them even started out where we are.

The “Celebrity”:  The “Celebrity” or faux celebrity, is the person who has a lot of money and is in the public eye and makes sure that people never forget it.  They are the celebrity that people hate to serve because of their attitudes.  They don’t tip, thinking that we should just be privileged that we’re serving them in the first place.  They routinely complain about their food and/or service.  They drop their name, even when they’re not famous enough for people to care about them.  Pacman Jones and Young Buck are just two examples of the faux celebrity.  I’m quite sure that there are more names on the list, but I’m not adding them here.

That’s all for tonight, I’ll put up the next installment of the Restaurant Customer Stereotypes tomorrow.

I know I haven’t posted much, and I’m just going to stop promising to post more because it’s hard to find the time.  Just don’t give up on me guys, I’m not going anywhere!

Ribeye

As you all know from a couple of posts ago, I had a “fun” weekend last week.  Issues with the Expo line, stupid guests, lots of little slutty looking girls that didn’t look old enough to drive much less act like they were and wear what they did.  I saw more camel toes last weekend than I have the entire time at the “Restaurant that shant be named”.  Last Friday night, much like most of the recent Friday nights, I ended up in the bowling/billiard areas of my job.  I hate being in those areas on the weekends because they get even more people who’ve caught the dumbass than normal.  At least in the game room there are still some normal people.

One of my first tables of the night provided a great deal of happiness for me.  Not because they left me a big tip (they didn’t leave anything for me except a complaint), but because they thought they were smarter than I was.

Approaching the table, I see a foreign looking couple.  From a distance they look to be Latin but when I got closer I could see they were Kurds.  Everyone knows that I hate serving Kurds because they don’t tip for shit, but I couldn’t get out of it.  That early in the shift, it was just me on the floor.  Trying not to groan as I walked up to them, I put the most fake smile I possibly could onto my face.   “Hey guys, how ya’ll doing this afternoon.”  I use my hick accent to it’s fullest advantage sometimes, namely because tourists love it.  I used it this time because I was in a mood.

“We tursty,” the guy said with his heavy accent.  I always wonder if Kurdish people just can’t pronounce the th sound or if they’re just trying to be smart.  I wonder the same thing about many black people when it comes to the word ask.

“Well sir, it’s Happy Hour if you would like to get something from our bar.”  I’m still pouring it on even though I’m starting to think I’ve waited on these two before, the girl has really bushy and long red hair and she looks very familiar.

“Bring me someting….exotic,” Adawallah responds.  I decide to bring him something fruity.

“That’s no problem sir, I just need to see your ID first.  And ma’am, what would you like to drink this afternoon?”  I ask, turning to Amatullah of the Bushy Hair and grabbing Adawallah’s ID all at once.

“Bring me shot of Bailey’s.”  If nothing else, these mother fuckers were concise.  No please, no Can I have?, no I would like.  Just Bring this now!  I hate that attitude.

“Would you like that straight up or on the rocks, ma’am?”

“On rocks.”

“Have you got your ID on you, ma’am?”  I ask, somehow already knowing the answer.  She might have long and bushy hair, but Amatullah certainly did not look to be any older than 14 years of age.  She starts digging through her pockets, all one and a half of them, for her ID and manages to fish out a debit card.  She hands me the debit card and tells me “We want start tab,” then goes back to playing her game.

“Ma’am, I would certainly love to start a tab for the two of you but I cannot serve your Bailey’s without seeing your ID first.”

“It must be in car,” she says while racking the next game of pool.

“Would you like to go get it?”  I asked, wondering if she really expected me to bring her drink without it.

“Just go ahead and bring her drink, you see my ID already,” Adawallah chimes in.

I turn to him, “I can’t serve her a drink until I see her ID for it.  Would you like to go and get it from the car for her or does she just not have one?”

“It is in car.  Bring her drink and we get ID later.”

“No, sir, I can’t do that.  Ma’am, would you like me to bring you a coke or tea for now?”  I ask.  I can see the look of hate in her eyes, she knows I know she’s not legal now.

“No, I will be fine.”  That’s quite fine with me.  I go and get his drink and drop it off.  I hang around for a minute to see if they want anything to munch on while they play.  They don’t order anything, and are even shorter with me than they were to begin with.  I guess I really did piss them off.

I decide to keep an eye on them while they play, knowing that she is going to drink out of his drink.  At that time of the day, my only guests are in the billiard room so hanging around to keep an eye on them isn’t a real problem.  I wander through every few minutes or so, mostly making it look like I’m cleaning, occasionally checking on other guests.  Finally, I catch this bitch with the drink in her hand.  I let the manager know, who says she needs to see it before I can take it.  I tell her that she has to keep an eye on them then, and let someone else answer manager calls for a few minutes.

When I go back to check on them again, she’s had more of his drink and it’s a little over half empty.  “Ya’ll doing alright over here?” I ask.

“I no like this drink, I want someting else,” Adawallah tells me, holding it up and shaking it a little.

“That’s fine, sir, let me take this one out of your way then.” I reach out to grab the first drink, and he pulls it away from me.

“I will keep this.”

“But sir, if you don’t like it then why would you want to keep and pay for it?  I’ll just take it out of your way for you and you won’t have to deal with it anymore.”

“Bring me Bailey’s on rocks and I will finish this one.”  When he orders the Bailey’s a red flag pops up in my head and I respond accordingly.

“Sir, I’m not bringing you a shot of Bailey’s, I’m sorry.”  I make to grab the first drink again and he pulls it away from me again.

“Why not?” he asks me with a knowing smile on his face.

“I’m not bringing it because it’s the exact same drink that she ordered, and she has failed to produce proper ID for me.  I’ll gladly bring you something else, but I’m not going to bring a drink that you’re clearly going to give to her.”

He doesn’t try to order another drink, and as I walk off, I guess just to piss me off even more, I see the girl pick up the fruity drink and take a big swallow from it.  Seeing that, I go and grab my manager again.  I let her know what’s going on, and that I’m not going to serve him a shot of Bailey’s that is going to go directly down his girlfriends throat.  She goes and speaks with the guests and comes back.  She tells me that the guy made it quite clear the Bailey’s was for him, and that she made it quite clear that his girlfriend had to have ID to drink and if she was caught drinking out of either the fruity drink I served first, or the Bailey’s that was about to be served, that I would be removing both drinks, they would pay for both drinks, they would pay for their billiards, and they would leave the building.

I don’t like being told I have to serve a guest alcohol, especially when it’s my liquor license on the line if something happens but out of respect for the manager and the fact that TN is a Right to Hire/Fire state, I went ahead and did it.  At least I knew that I’d be able to snatch a drink from them, and that made me happy.

I dropped the Bailey’s off with them and started the waiting game.  I hovered for a little while, let the front desk employees know what was going on, and let the other cocktail servers know what was going on.  If this bitch so much as picked the drink up, they were to let me know so I could take it away from them.

She avoided it for a while,  even when she didn’t know I was watching.  For a split second I wondered if he really did order it for himself, being that he was the only one drinking it.  Then I noticed something:  I noticed that the drink was never getting shorter despite him bringing it to his lips a number of times.  That just made me more diligent.  I had to serve a couple of guests in bowling during this, so I didn’t have my eyes on her the entire time, but when I was up at the host stand, I glanced over to see her pick up the drink and try to kill it.  I nearly ran over to them to get it away before she finished it.  I was happy to notice that when I got there, the straw was still at her lips and I was in time.

I grabbed the drink from her as she was sucking it out of the straw, and it splashed all over her.  That brought me a certain amount of satisfaction.  “What you doing?” she shouted at me.

“You were already told by both myself and my manager that you had to have your ID to drink.  You failed to show either of us a proper form of ID.  You were also told that if you were caught drinking that you would have to pay your tab, pay for your pool and leave.  I’m going to need you to pay for your drinks now.  Would you like to use the credit card I’m holding or would you like to pay cash?”

“We pay cash,” Adawallah said, stepping in front of her before she had a chance to say anything else to me.  He held out a 20 dollar bill to me.  I took it and went to get his change.  I put his change and the credit card I’d been holding on to into a check presenter and left it with them, telling them they had 10 minutes to leave the premises.  I then went to clock out for a break and smoke.  I almost made it out the back door when a manager stops me and pulls me back in.  The guest has stopped at the host stand to bitch about me and accuse me of stealing their credit card.  Manager B the Wise is getting the third degree from these assholes, and I actually feel kind of sorry for him.  I don’t like dealing with them either!  I run back up to the front, and let Manager B the Wise know that their credit card was in the check book that I’d put the change into.  They got their card, almost pissed off that I hadn’t stolen it and given them a reason to bitch at me.

Too bad I was in the right with the situation.  Everyone knows how much of a hardass I am about checking ID.  I’m not letting anyone else slide, so why am I going to let someone who looks like they’re still a teenager slide?  I’m not losing my job over something stupid.

Ribeye