I’ve never in the nearly two years that I’ve worked for “the Restaurant that Cannot be Named” had a more horrible night than I had this past Sunday.  I was stiffed, I was maimed, I was harassed, I was yelled at, I was stiffed, I was stiffed, I was stiffed.  I was so pissed off at one point that I was ready to walk out the door and not look back but I stayed…

The first of the night went great.  I had awesome tables, was making great tips, made a couple of new friends who came back to see me tonight.  It was after 8 o’clock that I started having problems.

First problem table came in the form of three really ghetto black guys that reeked of weed.  From the time I went to the table, they had attitude problems with me.  I didn’t even have a chance to introduce myself or anything before the first one, LemonJelo with the nappy braids sticking out of his head like the snakes of Medusa, looks at me and says, “You da waidah?  Brang three Hen and Coke ovah,” and tries to wave me away.  “No problem, sir, I just need to see three ID’s.”  You’d have thought I just blew up their cars for the looks they gave me.

“Why you gotta see dem fo?” OranJello asked.  “Because I have to see an ID from anyone who is drinking alcohol or I’m not allowed to serve them.”  One by one, the three pulled out their state issued ID cards out.  Only one of them turned out to be 21.  “I’m sorry guys, I can’t serve the two of you,” I said, handing them back their cards, “Can I bring you a coke or something?”

“You can brang dey Hennessey like I ask.”  LemonJello said, starting to get pissed off.  “I can’t serve them any alcohol because they’re not 21 and I don’t want to get fired.”

“Jus brang da damn dranks, dude, we ain’ gon’ tell nobody!”  The third guy, Cheeto said.  “Sir, I’m not going to serve you, there’s no point in continuing to ask.  I’ll gladly bring you something non-alcoholic, but nothing from the bar.”

“Man, fuck you, we ain’ gotta take dis bullshit, we drank heah all da time!  Dis jus cuz we black.”

“Sir, this has nothing to do with your being black, this has to do with me wanting to keep my job and not serve someone who’s underage.  If you continue to talk to me like that, you’ll be escorted out of here.  Now, do you want something to drink or not?”  They got up and left.

The next two tables weren’t hateful or anything, they were just cheap bastards.  I had to clean up three spills from one womans little groin spawn who couldn’t have been more than 2 years old and who shouldn’t have been sitting without a booster seat to begin with.  Her mother decided to let her drink from a regular cup, claiming “My baby don’t need no kiddie cup, she a big girl now.” I tried to prove otherwise by bringing a kids cup anyway, only to have her set it aside and let the brat try to drink out of her cup.  Three times she spilled it, and her lazy mother refused to even try to clean it up.  She just waved me over.  They left me nothing.

The next table of the night had to be the worst one of all, and while they were there a couple of regulars that I love came in.  They were black, and yes, the race matters and you’ll see why after I tell you about this table.

It started out a woman and her two kids.  I’ll name then LaSqueeshia (mother), ShaMarion (son), and Qualatisha (daughter).  The son and daughter were real names, I didn’t find out the mothers real name.  Anyway, they sat down at one of my tables and started waving me over while I was taking an order from another group.  I tried to ignore them so I could answer questions for my table, and LaSqueeshia started yelling quite loudly “Can we get a servah ovah heah?  We been waitin fa 10 minutes already.”  They hadn’t even been sitting for 2 minutes, much less 10.  I finished my order and put it in, then grabbed some bev-naps and went to my new table.

“Sorry for the wait, everyone, how are you tonight?”  I asked as cheerfully as I possibly could.

“We done ate dinnah, we jus came ta have some dessert.” LaSqueeshia said.  “What all ya’ll got?”  I picked up the menu and opened it to the dessert page, and pointed out a couple of the good ones.  “Do dat cake get some ice cream?” she asked, pointing at a chocolatey delight.  “No ma’am, but you can get some ice cream with it for 75 cents extra and believe me, it goes great with that cake.”

“Why we gotta pay exkra if it tase good wit it?”  one of the kids asked.  “Because the ice cream doesn’t come with it, so you have to pay for it if you want it.”

They ended up ordering a big dessert that they could share, two waters and a sprite.  They stayed for an hour, with momma on the phone most of the time.  More of the family showed up, including two ugly women with the wrong weave in.  After about 45 minutes of my checking on them and them not answering me, I went and printed their check out and drop it off.   Since they hadn’t asked for it, I stopped by the table behind theirs to see if everything was okay, it was a party of 6 from out of town and I was chatting with them, just having a good time with them trying to get a tip.  For the record, this also was a table of black people.  As we were talking, one of the bitches from the dessert table turns around and looks at me, and yells “We ready ta go, CHECK PLEASE!”  I looked up and held up my hand in an ‘I’ll be there in just a second’ gesture.  I stayed with the table for a couple of minutes longer and told them I’d be right back.

I walked the few steps to LaSqueeshia’s table.  “Hey there, ladies, how was everything tonight?”  None of them bothered to answer me.  “Are we all done with this?” I asked, pointing to the dessert.  The woman who’d yelled at me waved it away and kept yapping on the phone.  I took the plate and told them I’d be back to take care of the check whenever they were ready, and went back to what I was doing.  My regulars were sitting across from them and the 6 top was still sitting on the table behind theirs.   I went by to chat with my regulars, who’ve been my regulars for close to a year now, and was talking to them for a few minutes.

While I’m talking to them, I suddenly hear the same hateful voice that yelled for the check, “We ready ta pay, why you ain’ comin ovah heah!”  I told my guests that I’d be back in a second and went back to my bitches.  “All ready to go, ladies?”

“You bettah brang us back every penny of da change,” she replied.  “No problem at all, ma’am, just give me a moment to cash this out.”  I walked away.  The check was 11 and some change.  I wasn’t hateful toward these women at all, I answered their questions happily and they were just hateful the whole time.  So in the end, I made sure they got exact change.  6 of it was in dollar bills, the rest in quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.  “Ladies, be careful with the book theres a bit of coin change loose inside.” I said with a minor smile on my face, and walked off to my regulars again.

I sat talking to them for a little while.  Their names are Deborah and Leonard, they’re an awesome middle aged couple with two kids, one in high school and one about to start college.  They have a bit of ghetto to them but they tip, they’re nice, and I have had fun with them since the first time they came in.  Being that I’d only had problems with black tables that night, I asked them honestly, “Am I doing something different with my black guests and not realizing it?  Why is it these people are treating me so bad tonight?”  I honestly don’t believe that I treat black guests any different than white, mexican or any other race of guests, and neither did Deborah and Leonard.

Deborah replied, “I didn’t notice anything different from how you served your other tables, why do you ask?”  I told her about the other tables, and how I’d been stiffed 6 times already through the night and it was all from black guests.  She was shocked, and I asked again, “I just really need to know if I’m doing something to deserve it or make them think I don’t want to be serving them!”  They assured me that there was nothing wrong with my service, but I still wasn’t reassured.

The guests that I had to serve Sunday night were most assuredly reenforcing the stereotype of blacks in restaurants and it really pissed me off that I was the one having to deal with it!  I don’t consider myself a racist by any means, but after Sunday night I was seriously close to losing both my temper and my beliefs.  Sunday night is the reason that servers in the majority don’t want to serve black guests.  I haven’t let it change me though; I still welcome any and all guests in the hopes of getting a tip from them and that will never change, but after getting stiffed so many times in one night from one racial group only, and being told by guests of that same group that I did nothing wrong in my service, I at one point threw down my swipe card, yelled that I was going on break and I didn’t care who watched my section and I stormed out the back door to smoke and calm down.

Oh, and the party of 6 from out of town that I had so much fun with left me nearly 40 bucks on a 130 dollar bill,  didn’t know anything about any of the other guests that had stiffed me during the night, were black and awesome.  I treated them the exact same as the other 6 tables.  Was it just something different about the people in general?

Maybe I just need a vacation…by the way, if you consider me a racist because of this post, I hate it.  I am only telling about my night, and hopefully showing you that although some black guests do perpetuate the stereotype, they’re still not all bad no matter how many bad seeds you have to deal with in one night.  I still made a hundred bucks Sunday night, despite my stress.  I can however see why most servers feel the way they do about black guests because it’s painfully obvious that even if you do nothing wrong, the majority of them still don’t tip.

Ribeye

I recently saw a link posted in the bitterwaitress forums to a site I’m now in love with.

Click the following link to see what I’m talking about:  Two Phrases That Destroyed American Culture.

I wish more customers were like this person when it comes to defense of industry staff.

Ribeye

We all have them, we all hate working with them and most of us just plain hate them. They are the managers that have the beady little eyes and the hateful “numbers only” attitudes. They are the managers that will force you to serve alcohol without seeing an ID from the guest, they are the managers who don’t back you up when you have a problem with a guest, and they are the managers who make you come to work with a 102 degree fever because you couldn’t find anyone to cover your shift when you tried to call out 6 hours beforehand per the corporate procedure.

As any of you who have read my recent posts know, I had an issue with my GM on the expo line a couple of weeks ago. Now, I’m not only having a problem with him on expo, I’m having a problem with him in the FOH (Front of House for the non-indusriers). This manager is not well liked by the staff, not so much because he’s making changes in our store but because he’s making the wrong changes.

My issue with him last night stemmed from one of those changes. Formerly, servers where I work were allowed to take parties of up to 25 guests by themselves. Now, we have to have a partner if there are more than 15 guests. I have no problem with that rule if the servers are newly validated, or cannot handle that quantity of guests, however for those of us who are experienced and have been with the company for a while and can handle that volume, I hate the rule.

Last night, there was a call-ahead party of 18 that was going to be coming into the bowling alley. It was decided that I would be partnering with Mr. N for this party, because of this new “company” policy put into place by my GM. I wasn’t happy about having to split the party, but I didn’t bitch. We had their three lanes put on hold and I stood around to wait until they showed up.

An hour later, they start arriving, and I find out it’s going to be 5 adults and 13 kids. The adults are drinking top shelf drinks and liquor from the bar, including : Glenlivet on the rocks, Johnnie Walker Black, Gran Marnier, Patron, Belvedere, and Chivas Regal. The kids were all drinking bottles of root beer, making for plenty of extra charges because refills aren’t free. Both Mr. N and I still had our sections to take care of along with the party. Mr. N’s section got filled up, and I was taking care of the 18 by myself. Not a problem, I was enjoying it and the kids were having fun. I introduced one of them to a kid that plays on Hannah Montana and she was thrilled. Mr. N decided to let me keep the party alone because he was so busy.

They bowled for almost 2 hours, ran up a tab of 380 bucks without their gratuity. They had a total of 32 appetizers. When they were done bowling, I still had some stuff left on their lane to clean up, napkins, glasses and a few plates. I’d been prebussing the whole time. They left me a hundred dollars over the gratuity, knowing the gratuity was there. It wasn’t like they didn’t think I was getting tipped, they knew what they were doing. I made a killing off that party. Total, including what goes on my check, 160 bucks. I was thrilled, and they wouldn’t shut up about how awesome I was (making my head bigger), and how accommodating we were, and how awesome our restaurant was. I don’t get such great tips all the time, much less get awesome comments like theirs were, so when I got them I made sure to let my manager, Manager S the Feminine, know what they thought so she could catch them before they left and do a “table visit”.

About that time, Soulless GM walks up to Manager S. He looks at the lanes where the party was playing and sees what I’ve got left to clean up. I let him know what all happened, and how happy I was to have gotten such a great tip and compliment. He asks who all worked the party, and Manager S explains that it was just me because of Mr. N getting slammed.

Manager S received “chastisement” for allowing me to take a party of such size alone going against our policy and giving the guest such bad service.  I walk up about that time, and he turns to me and says “That’s why we put more dan one server on a party of that size, so you don’t give such sloppy service.”  Had he been joking, it wouldn’t have bothered me so much.

He wasn’t joking.  He doesn’t really know how to joke around.  This fucker actually thought that I was a bad server, despite the extra Benjamin Franklin I got on the party, and the compliments I received.  I asked him what he meant with his comment and he replied, “Look at that lane, you didn’t prebus or clean up anything while they were here!”

I always prebus.  I scream at others to prebus.  I didn’t get the last bit because they were finishing up and cashing out.  I let him know how many plates they had and why there were still some on the lane.  “You call that prebussing?” he asks.   “Yes, sir, I do.  I can’t take plates they’re still eating from or glasses they’re still drinking from.  You try serving 13 kids and see how well you do!”

The guest was standing behind him as he talked shit about me to my face, and the guest was not happy with his comments.

My manager wonders why the morale of our store is so fucking low right now, it’s because of comments like the ones he made last night.   What he said in front of other servers, another manager, my guests, and to me in the middle of our bowling area was rude, it was unprofessional, and it was hurtful.  I work my ass off for him, and this is how I’m treated.  I’m basically told that I’m a bad server because I didn’t prebus every single plate they had when they were eating right up until the time they paid and left!

This is why I’m out looking for another place to serve and/or bartend.  I would have tried bartending here except they won’t be flexible with my hours and training hours and I can’t afford to give up job #2 for a position I might not make cash in.  I’d love to be a bartender but I can’t afford it.

My stress level can’t afford this GM much longer either, I’ll end up snapping on him and getting myself fired, thereby ruining a great job reference for nearly 2 years of hard work in one spot.

I guess we’ll see how things go.

Ribeye

I worked another double shift today (Sunday 5/4).  I wasn’t planning on doing it, but I picked up for Miz J this morning because she helped me out Thursday night.

The drawback (or so I initially thought):  I was to work in the dining room, and I did work in the dining room.  After almost 3 and a half hours of sleep, I managed to get up and motivated this morning and actually got to work on time.  They didn’t even have me on the floor plan in the dining room at first, so after remaking it and being forced into our “raised dining” area (seating that’s a few steps higher than the rest of the dining room, mainly for parties but has some booths), I was ready to start my shift.

My first table was a party of 6, a couple of grandparents and an aunt, and three little girls.  One of the girls was celebrating her 12th birthday, so I just couldn’t help but to have a bit of fun with them.  The grandparents and her aunt were a little bland with no personality but the girls were having fun.

The birthday girl, a little bit of a chubby girl, seemed a bit embarrassed to talk to me for some reason, so I had to open her up.  First thing out of my mouth when I found out it was her birthday was, “So you’re 16 today?  When are you going to take your driving test.”  That got her giggling and blushing, and from there we had fun.  She let me know it was her 12th birthday and she and her sister were visiting her grandparents and aunt, and her aunts adopted daughter.  I got their orders in, and I found out that even though our kids cheeseburger is just that, a plain cheeseburger with fries, people still let me know that they want a “plain cheeseburger”.  What I didn’t know about a plain cheeseburger is that it has no cheese.  That makes it a hamburger people!

After I got the orders in, Birthday wanted to open her presents.  Grandma told her she had to have my permission first.  “Can I?  Can I?”  she asked, all kinds of excited and making me remember what it was like to be a kid.  “Nope, not yet,” I replied, which she pointedly ignored.   I left them to the presents, and went about my business.

I kept making her blush throughout the meal, and even though one of the cheeseburgers was supposed to be a hamburger that I was supposed to telepathically pull from their heads, I still made 28 bucks from them.  It was a total of 70 bucks between the two checks, and I was completely surprised.  Before they left, Birthday girl came up and hugged me, and wanted to take a picture with me.  First table of the day and I was blushing.

I had a few filler tables before the other servers came in, and then I was in my boring section.  I had two tables total in my actual section, one a party of 7 and one of them a couple from out of town.  The couple came in while I was on break, and waited until I got there to get anything from the bar.  As usual, I made the lady blush by asking if she was really old enough to drink.  Clearly, she was at least in her 30’s, but it’s nice to see them smile sometimes.  She was so happy when I suggested a chocolate martini, she’d never heard of one.  They promised to come see me before they went home.

The next party, the 7 top, was a bunch of young 20’s guys and girls.  I went up to them like I do everyone else, happy and fun.  They got a few drinks from the bar, and I managed to convince them to get appetizers.  I wasn’t too happy that it was only 7 people, figuring that they were young and I wasn’t getting a tip without gratuity, but I made the best of the situation.  I stayed up there talking to them, and that’s when I learned that this group comes in every couple of weeks or so.

Not getting into the details of making sure they had drinks full, and making sure everything was right the entire time while actually asking how they were and what they did for work, I learned a few things from this table.  Along with the fact that they come in a lot, I learned that they’ve never eaten in the game room or bowling alley, only in the dining room.  It’s always the same 7 people that come in, some work together, but they’re all really good friends.  Two couples, and three singles.  They’ve been friends since childhood apparently.

I learned that when they eat in the dining room, the servers don’t really care about them.  It’s always taken them forever to get refills, their food doesn’t come out right sometimes, they get rude and unfriendly service all the time.  They told me over and over how wonderful my service was, how nice I was, how great I was.  Talk about an ego boost.  They enjoyed my service, as opposed to the normal dining room servers.  They never knew that they could eat in our game room or bowling alley (where I normally work) and after telling my management how good I was and how happy they were compared to their normal visits, they promised to try and find me every time they come in.  I was really touched for some reason, maybe because coming from them it didn’t sound as hollow as most of the game room guests I get that say they’ll come back and never do.  Don’t get me wrong, I have my regulars but I have a ton of people who say they’ll be regulars and never come back.  It touched me that these people asked me to sit with them and have lunch, and wanted to know how my day was.  It touched me that they also took pictures with me, just like Birthday Girl did, and that the ladies hugged me and the guys shook my hand.  Almost makes me miss working in a dining room setting full time.  It also concerned me a little, because I was just doing what I normally do when I serve, and they were so impressed.  Are my dining room servers really that unfriendly?  Are they really so lazy as to not take an empty glass when they bring a new one?  I’ll be investigating this further as I pick up extra shifts in the front.  (they also tipped me fabulously, 50 bucks on 130)

Another table that made me happy today was on the 2nd half of my shift, when I was back in my home, the game room.  There was a family that came in, Dareeta the Mother, Jamario the son, LaGordon the other son, and Thompson the Father.  It was their first time, they were from Kentucky.  At first, when I saw Dareeta (real name) with gold on top and bottom of her mouth, I prejudged.  I won’t lie.  I thought they’d be trouble, especially when Dareeta was on her phone and LaGordon had his ipod on during the first half.  However, I took the time to talk to them.  I got Dareeta a bottle of white zin, and just treated them like normal guests.  Like my party earlier in the day, they wanted me to sit with them and eat.  They smiled, they laughed.  I got Dareeta and Thompson on the DDR game before they left.  They tipped almost 20 bucks on a 90 dollar bill, and thanked me for making their “first expurrince” at our restaurant a great one.

Then we come to the stupid.  We have the stupid Ribeye who overserved an older guy to the point he fell asleep standing up with a pool cue in his hand.  I was scolded for it, but nothing else because I got them a cab home.

The last table of the night was the only one that really pissed me off.  It was a group of ghetto young adults, none over 26.  One girl, pregnant, her name Sheleetia, had a look on her face like she had something shoved up her ass the wrong way.  Her boyfriend, LaSamuel, had tats all over his arms and fake gold all in his mouth.  The other couple, Lasquanda (the only nice one of the group) and her boyfriend, a big fat stupid son of a bitch corn row having bastard named Jearl.

I didn’t think they were going to eat at first, until they came up to me and Jearl says, “You who we orda da foo from?”

“Well, yes, if you’re sitting at the tables.  I’m the only one here right now, so I’m not serving the games tonight.”  So they sit at a table.  I get over there, and after 10 minutes of explaining that our lemonade is just pink and not strawberry, I finally get drink orders from three of them.  Jearl, however, is having issues ordering his drink.

“Ya’ll juice get free refill?”  I tell him no, that I have to charge full price for each glass.  “Ya’ll gots appa juice?”  I once again have to answer in the negative, which brings the following question.  “If ya’ll got dat appa mahtini, why ya’ll ain’ got appa juice?”
“Because the apple martini is made with apple pucker, not apple juice.”  I then have to remind him about 8 times that the juices are not free refills.

They finally order food, after changing the menu to suit their wants.  Jearl orders a chicken alfredo.  While they’re waiting (this is 30 minutes before kitchen closes), he takes every opportunity to yell at me wondering where his foods at, all the while throwing out what I learned to be “Crip” signs with his hands.  I don’t know one gang from the next, but one of my cooks set me straight.  Fuck if I care about a Crip, I only care about a tip.  After 10 minutes of his badgering me about his food, I was forced to tell him, “It’s cooking, when it’s done, you’ll be eating.  I can’t make the grill cook any faster,” and walked off.  Their food finally comes out after 16 minutes, which is good for that time of night.

Jearl waits until he’s finished half of his pasta before he asks me for “some mo’ of dat sketty sauce dat’s on dis.”  Then he gets pissed off that I have to charge for it.  It takes about 6 minutes to come out, and that pisses him off even more.  He starts demanding free dessert for his long wait, after I warned him it’d take a bit of time to get the sauce because the kitchen is about to close and they do the alfredo in a skillet making it take longer.

“You’re not getting any free dessert, you’re still eating your food.”

“You ain’ da managah is you?  Get da managah ovah here, we see what day give me.”  Manager S the Fibromyalgiapod comes by, and takes the food from him.  No free dessert, but has the kitchen recook his pasta and send it to go.

Check time.  Jearl’s check was 40.66 and the other couple was 20.79.  Jearl gives me 40.20 and tells me to keep the change.  “Sir, you still owe me 46 cents so there is no keeping the change here.”  He counts out another 20 cents, and starts to walk off.  “Are you going to pay the correct amount of your bill or what, sir?  Can you not read what the price says?”  Maybe I struck a nerve there, but he started getting pissed off.  “Never mind, sir, that damn quarter ain’t hurting my pocket any.”  I knew he wasn’t going to tip when he didn’t even pay the right amount.

All in all, except for the last table of the night, I had a really good double.  You all also got to see the reasons that I do enjoy my job in this post.  I don’t always have people that piss me off, and today was one of those days.  It’s rare that more than one group a week makes me feel good, but to have three in one day make me feel awesome, make my head grow even larger, and make me blush is unheard of.  Those three groups made me happy at work for a change, their tips sure helped, but even had they tipped 12% I’d have still been happy with them.

See, serving isn’t all bad!  And some of you wonder why I still do it.

Ribeye

Wow, has it really been over a week since I made a post that wasn’t just “filler”?  Sorry about that everyone, but I’ve been either working my ass off (most of the week) or ill, (Wednesday and Thursday) and just didn’t feel like blogging.  I’ll make sure to remedy that.

It’s been a long week this week, and I’m glad it’s almost over.

Early in the week, I discovered that while I was going to be making a very lucrative wage for the majority, I was to be surrounded by an onslaught of stupidity, more than the normal.  I’ve sent more people into the mall to find a bathroom than I’ve ever done before, and I don’t know when I’ve been asked more, “Do you work here?”

Some of the answers I gave to people who asked that question this week:

“Do you work here?”  asked while I’m tapping an order into the system.  “No, I’m just a programmer.”

“Do you work here?”  asked while I’m carrying a tray of drinks to a table.  “No, I’m just helping myself, the service here is horrible!”  I then served those guests, and still pulled out 18%.

“Do you work here?”  I looked down at my apron and name tag…I hate wearing a name tag…looked back at the guest, and said simply, “No,” and walked off.

I don’t understand how people can not realize that you work at the restaurant, when you’re carrying food to tables in the restaurant.

I had a woman argue with me about her drink after ordering an Absolut and vodka on the rocks:

“Can I bring you anything from the bar, ma’am?” I ask her as I walk up to the ‘Skee Ball’ machine.

“Brang me uh Ab-salute an voka on da rock,” she replied, not missing a ball.

I didn’t catch it at first, being in a bit of a hurry, until I was asking for her ID.  “You said a what?”

“Uh Ab-salute an voka on da rock!  Ain’ ya heah me?”

“Do you just want a shot of Absolut on the rocks ma’am, or would you like it mixed with our house vodka?”

“Let me ’splain it to ya.  I want a shot of voka, mix wit some Ab-salute, an’ ligh ice, in uh glass!”

“So you want a double shot of vodka, half house and half Absolut.”

“NO, you ain’ listenin!  I wan voka mix wit Absolut!”

“Ma’am, Absolut is a brand of vodka, so mixing it with house vodka is going to make it a double shot of vodka.”

“Ab-salute ain’ no licka, it pink juice!”   At this point, I realize she wants a vodka with cranberry, but she just is too stupid to vocalize it.

“No, ma’am, Absolut is vodka, and the only pink juice we have is cranberry juice.”

“Ab-salute is juice, you jus don’ know what you talkin bout.”  I finally gave up.  As I was walking off, I heard her talking to her boyfriend saying, “We ain’ comin heah no mo, dees waitahs don’ know what day doin.”

Yet I knew that Absolut wasn’t a juice.

Why am I constantly surrounded by a barrage of fucking imbeciles?

On a much lighter note, today (Saturday) while I was working an 11am to 1am double shift, I made over 300 bucks after tip-out and other shiftwise expenses…eating well and a supply of coffee and red bull.  It was close to 400 before all that shit, and I made some new regulars.  One party, a black party for all of you who think that all black people don’t tip, left me 40 bucks over their 30 dollar gratuity.

Let that be a lesson to all you naysayers that refuse to wait on black tables.  It’s only the trash that doesn’t tip, black groups that are respectable and not hateful or running you like a dog tip great, and they are happy to sit and laugh with ya!  Never let it be said again that black people don’t tip unless it’s phrased correctly.  GHETTO black people don’t tip, so get it right!

Ribeye