Talk about getting my ass kicked.  I’ve worked the bars at my job before, just never by myself on a Saturday night before.  The only time I’ve been busier was on the various Super Bowl Sundays.  Don’t get me wrong, the money was great, but I just don’t know about dealing with that type of guest.

I got to work the bowling bar this past Saturday.  Let me rephrase that.  I was thrown headfirst into the bowling bar this past Saturday.  I now realize what the bartenders go through on a full time basis and I probably won’t bitch at them or about them as much as I used to.

First thing I had to deal with on the bar, only on a much higher scale than I do on the floor:  the “How much do dat drank cost?” syndrome.  If there was a woman sitting at the bar, it was a sure bet that if they were younger than 30 they were going to ask how much everything was.  I have to wonder if I was just being hateful to some of them out of spite, or out of my being weeded out.

“How much do a shot of Henny be.”
“Close to 10 bucks.”
“That’s do damn much!  How much fo’ a cosmo?”
“Close to 9 bucks.”
“What about dat’  signature drink I’m not naming here, how much do dat cost?”
“I’m sorry, honey but I don’t have time to give you the prices of every drink.  Pick something and take your chances or drink a coke.”

and the next one

“How much fo’ a Millah lite?”
“Do you want a bottle or draft?”
“Well what da best deal?”
“The one that tastes good to you.  They’re all more than 3 dollars.”
“Well how much da big one?”
“Are you actually going to order if I tell you?”

and finally, a classic:

“How much Patron is?”
“10 bucks.”
“How much do Remy cost?”
“If you have to ask then you can’t afford it.”

I thought the other bartenders were just…exaggerating when they talked about the price check epidemic.  I dealt with it on the floor, but never in such vast numbers.

I’ve also gotten to see what it’s like dealing with cocktails that are in the weeds waiting for drinks.  The funny thing is, I’ve now been on both sides of that equation, and I have learned that it pretty much sucks either way.  I don’t like waiting for a bartender when they’re in the weeds, neither do I like listening to the cocktails whine about waiting when I’m in the weeds.  I kind of snapped at a couple of them Saturday night, didn’t really mean to but I was slaughtered with a full bar 2 people deep most of the night, and I was alone.  Both of the other bars in the building had 3 people working in each one, they didn’t have the problems I did.

People who ordered food from the bar then left the bar to get a lane or pool table were pretty much screwed.  It’s really hard to leave a full bar to check the kitchen for an appetizer, and I’m sorry, I’m not rushing to the back to find out where your appetizer is so that it comes out before your entree.  You’re sitting at a full bar with one bartender, drink your drink and eat your wings.  Don’t think you’re going to get full service like you’re sitting at a table, it’s just not going to happen when the bartender is busy.

Not much more involving the bar shift to talk about, other than I was exhausted when I got home and my back hurt.   About the same as working a floor shift if you want to know the truth.  At least I didn’t have to look up the recipe’s for any drink but one.  Makes me wonder what this Saturday is going to be like.

Ribeye

It started snowing here in Nashville tonight.  Not just a little, but enough to make the roads icy and keep people at home.  This also kept money out of my pocket.

I had a grand total of 360 in net sales tonight.  My normal for a Friday night is over a grand.  Of course, I might have missed a hundred bucks in sales not coming on the clock until 6:15 tonight, but I wasn’t even scheduled to be there until 6 anyway, and I guess I should consider myself lucky because I wasn’t even supposed to be on the floor in the first place.  I was supposed to be the break bitch tonight, giving everyone their 30 minute break, making a 10 dollar an hour pay rate, and going home early.  I needed cash more than I needed that payrate on my check.

Something I’m noticing lately, people are starting to get lazy again.  Not all people, just a few of them.  Most of the time, it’s just them standing around not doing anything and getting in the way, but other times it’s things that affect everyone.  It’s things like sidework…stocking your section, stocking condiments.  I hate it when people lie and say there’s no ketchup because they don’t feel like going to look.  I know it’s snowing and you all want to go home, that doesn’t mean you need to lie about your work just to get out of doing it!

I didn’t really have any tables overly piss me off tonight either.  Tips, while not great, were at least decent.  I did have on family leave their shit on my table for like two hours, not that I really needed the table but it still upset me, mainly because they only tipped me 2 bucks on a 50 dollar check.  I hate them.

Nothing more major to report tonight I’m sorry to say, other than I hate snow.  Snow ruins money at restaurants, and it makes everyone but the kids be pissy.

I’ll have something better tomorrow.  Later for now people.

Ribeye

Woman says restaurant kicked her out because of crying child

If only all managers would do just that.  If he did in fact kick her out because she wouldn’t control her kid, then he is a hero in my eyes, and in many other guests and servers eyes.  If it was only a threat and he kicked her out for being confrontational, then he’s still a hero, and that Entitlement Junkie has been smacked down!  Go Manager Go!!!

Parents do need to learn to control their kids.  Kids running around in restaurants are a danger, and kids crying at the top of their lungs are an annoyance to other patrons and staff.  Take them outside if they’re bawling, or just cook dinner at home.

Kudos to the manager of the day!

Ribeye

Children, as I’ve said here before, are the bane of my existence.  They come in with their drunken parents who don’t care what they do, or their over Christianized parents who are afraid to beat them as needed.

Little Zachariah’s 4th birthday party tonight, in the bowling alley.  He and his parents come in.  I say hi to them.  The parents are a little snooty, so I try a different approach.  I’d seen the cake, so I asked the kid if it was his birthday.  He just looked at me.  His mother waves me off without a word.   I tell her I’d be by once they got settled in.  She nods.

I come back a few minutes later, and ask how they are doing.  “We’re doing fine.”  Don’t ask me how I am, that would almost be too much.

“Can I get you all some drinks while you wait on your other party guests?”

“Bring us some tea.”  I don’t know what I did to offend this bitch.  “Would you like sweet or unsweet teas?  Or perhaps a Long Island?”

“Just some tea, I’m pregnant, can’t you tell?”

“No, ma’am, I wasn’t aware, and never assume”  She was skinny as a crackhead to be so snooty to me.

“Just regular tea.”   I took that to mean unsweet, and ran to retrieve the requested drinks.

While I’m dropping them off, I ask the kid, “So how old are you today?”  He holds up 4 fingers, and then points to all the presents and says, “All mine.”  He then runs off to grab a bowling ball.  Before I walk off, I see him throw the ball, and immediately grab another one.  The first one still hasn’t made it down the lane, and I realize it’s going to be one of those nights of running down the lane every 5 minutes.  He runs up to the lane to their right that isn’t even turned on, and proceeds to try and throw it.  I run up to him, and tell him very nicely, “That one’s turned off little guy, you can’t use it.”  He throws the ball anyway, and kicks me in the shin for my troubles.  I’ve never had to try so hard to not kick a kid across the room in my life.   His parents don’t even say a word about it.

I walk off, determined to get away from this brat as quickly as possible, I hear him screaming something about the ball.  I turn around, and sure enough, the first ball he threw is stuck in the lane, and he’s started to throw a third.  I look to the parents for support; they’re too busy turning on the digital camcorder to film their little crotch spawns birthday.  I have a feeling they’re the kind of parents who raise their kids with a nanny, and only see them on birthdays and such.

I ask them if they’d like to order anything, and they order chips and salsa.  This is something that we don’t have listed on the menu, but can be accomplished by some deft maneuvering of the POS system.  A quick, easy order.   I put it in, and go to take care of other lanes.

About 10 minutes go by…..

I get back to their lane, and see that their appetizer has made it out.  I also see that little Zachariah has had a temper tantrum.  He’s red in the face and has thrown a handful of chips onto the carpet and proceeded to stomp on them like a mexican hat dance.  The parents are just filming away like nothings going on.   I ask if they need anything else, they’re fine.  More guests arrive, and order more tea.

Later on in the experience, I bring them some plates and forks, and a cake spatula for the birthday cake.  I see the cake has a cross on it….I’d be embarrassed, even at 4 to be THAT religious.  No offense to the Christian readers, but there’s a limit on what you bring to the public, especially to a place that serves alcohol and shows the swimsuit awards on tv.   I don’t get thanked for any of my efforts, and suddenly I’m wishing I’d made them pick the cake with their fingers.  The entire group is evil and is going to burn…they don’t even offer me a piece of the ChristCake.

I lean across little birthday brat to grab some dirty plates before I drop off the check, and he aims a well aimed kick right into my nuts.  I had no choice, I screamed out ‘Oh SHIT!” before I realized it.  I was in pain, and this brat was about to be.  Still, his parents said nothing and I died a little inside.

I got no tip from them…but I had to clean up cake from my floor and the lane approach, and corn chip crumbs out of the fucking carpet.  All courtesy of the Omen’s Damien….I mean Zachariah.

Now, I’d like to tell you about a few of the gifts that I saw at the table:  A Precious Moments Bible (I got one when I was a kid.), a new cross necklace, the Bible PS2 game, a talking Jesus Doll from WalMarks, and some clothes.   The kid was excited about these things.  I’d have rather had some other games, maybe a Hungry Hungry Hippo or Candy Land when I was his age, pac man or something, but this shit just freaked me out.  At least they didn’t invite me to pray with them…..

Why do parents not discipline their kids?  Even the Christian ones let them roam free…..I have news for you though…Sometimes you should NOT spare the rod and damn sure should NOT spoil the child.  Beat their asses like they deserve and they’ll learn to behave!  Learn some parenting skills or stay at home.  And stop breeding if you can’t handle the ones you’ve got!

This is a long one, but hey, it’s a true Raging post =)

It was bad enough hearing it once, but to hear it from more than one table in one night?

Deflaniquiana, big big big fat woman, with weave about a foot on top of her head and braided all down the back, wearing next to no clothes, and thinking she was just the hottest thing since fried chicken, had to be the most demanding whore I’ve ever had to serve.

I get to the table, maybe 20 seconds after they sit down.

“Hey there, how ya’ll doing tonight? My name’s Ribeye, I’ll be..”

“Brang me a sprite, I thirsty.” Yes ma’am, thanks for interrupting me.

“Anything for you to drink, sir?” I say to the silent and embarrassed boyfriend.

“Just suh waddah an a bow of lemons.” Great, I have ghetto-ade with the sprite.

It takes me maybe a minute and a half to get their drinks filled and return with them. “What the hell took you so damn long, I done said I was thirsty.”

“I’m so sorry for your wait, ma’am, I had to wait behind someone for a moment before I could pour your drinks.”

“You a damn smart ass. Brang me a cheeseburger. How long thats gon take?”

“Well ma’am, how would you like it cooked?” This whore’s really starting to piss me off at this point.

“Make it done, how stupid is you?”

“Ma’am, if you keep talking to me like that, I’m going to have you escorted out of here, and you won’t eat anything here tonight.”

“Is you be threatin me?” Yes, I know how it’s spelled, it’s how it was said. “I’m just telling you like it is, ma’am. I’m a server and I’m not going to be talked to like a dog. Take it or leave it.”

At this point she shuts up for a minute, her boyfriend is close to falling out of his chair laughing and she’s staring daggers into him. I can only imagine such a nice guy would be with her because she has tight fat folds, because there’s no way he’d be able to get to her no-no spots.

He stops laughing enough to give me his order, and I walk off to the sounds of their arguing. Ah, life is nice.

A few minutes later, I hear, “Hey, SERVER, you need to get yo ass ovah heah.”

“You rang?” I’m trying at this point to make her smile, or grin, or shut up again with my undeniable charm. My stomach’s still hurting like it has been, and I’m still in no mood for bullshit like this.

“I need mo sprite.” The glass is still more than half full.

“Give me just a moment ma’am, and I’ll bring it right out.” I go and get her sprite, and drop it off without saying a word. As I’m walking off, I hear her yell, “Brang me a salad too, with exKra rainch.” I go to the kitchen and get her salad, and 2 sides of ranch (4 ounces). I bring it back to the table, and set the salad on the table. The two sides of ranch are sitting on the tray.

“Where my damn dressin at?”

“It’s right here on the tray ma’am, give me a minute to set it down.” I set down first side.

“That sure as fuck ain’t no exkra, where da rest be?”

“It’s right here ma’am.” I more or less throw the ranch on the table, spilling it on her faux-prada purse.

“You need ta go get me 2 mo of dees, and what da hell kinda lettuce is dis?”

“It’s field greens ma’am.”

“Well why da fuck ain’t no real lettuce in dis, dis be nasty.”

“We don’t have iceberg here, ma’am. Give me a moment to go to the kitchen and get your extra dressing.”

“Hurry da fuck up, dis salad gon get limp.” It’s going to be limp from all the fucking ranch you’re putting on it you bitch.

Heading to the kitchen, I look back for a minute, and I see her get up and waddle over to the bar to ask for a manager. Bartender calls manager, and she rolls on back to her table. I ask bartender J what she said.

“It said you’re a rude bastard, that you didn’t ask how they were doing, and that you cussed her out.” Well isn’t that nice. I came close to cussing her out, but I didn’t. Yes, I did get rude, and I won’t apologize for that because I was responding to the way I was treated. I’m nobody’s dog, I work hard for a living.

Manager goes to table, and I casually walk to one on the other side of the wall to make it look like I’m cleaning up. I hear her boyfriend say to the manager, “Don’t listen to anything she says, she’s on the rag or somethin and just bein a bitch. Ribeye’s doing an awesome job, most people can’t put up with her at all.” Why do ghettofied black women, not strong and proud, classy and intelligent black women, just ghettofied trashy black women have to be so difficult?

Manager later comes to me and tells me what I already know, she came to him away from boyfriend and told him all kinds of shit, that I was treating her like shit, that I’m a racist, that I used the N word, which I don’t use at all, that I was rude. He told me that he didn’t believe her especially after what the boyfriend said. Boyfriend is also black, and surprisingly is quite ghetto. He’s also the type of ghetto that I enjoy. He’s not rude ghetto, he’s fun ghetto that doesn’t take shit but doesn’t treat others like shit. His girlfriend is the entitlement junkie in this equation.

Apparently she asked to get their meal free, and was denied.

Boyfriend tips me 100% of the check, which is 22 bucks. Made me happy. He walked into the bathroom before they left, and she grabs my arm and tries to pull me to the side.

“Ma’am, do NOT grab me again. If you would like something then ask, but do not put your hands on me.” Made me think she was gonna eat my arm or something, fat tub of lard.

“I just want you to know I gonna be callin yo coporate on you, you is a asshoe, an you gon pay fo da way you treated me.”

“Ma’am, I treated you the way you treated me. If you come back in here, I will not serve you, and neither will anyone else who was here tonight. Your boyfriend, however, is welcome at any time.”

Yes, tonight, I could have easily been fired for the way I talked to her, but you know what, I also didn’t care. I was in pain, and I wanted to stab her.

I told you all this weekend would bring some goodness.

Ribeye