I Hate Your Poor Service
Since most colleges are holding their graduations in these next few weeks, I got to thinking about all the young, ambitious, starry-eyed-grads with high-hopes and lofty dreams, ready to be released upon the real world, looking to take it by the horns, tame it, pet it, calm it, kiss its silky fur, name it "Big Blue," and then walk across this great country with Big Blue, conquering it city by city, state by state. But after about a week of graduation parties and a week of searching Monster.com, and a few weeks of your mom bitching at you for leaving cigarette butts on the driveway and wasting the day because you're sleeping until 1pm, you will soon realize you need a fucking job, and you will take the first thing that comes along, and it will be as a waiter at a chain restaurant, taking my food order and attending to my beverage needs. Because that's the way life works, so deal with it. You didn't go to Harvard, you went to fucking Ramapo College, what do you expect, $75K, a company car, plus motherfucking stock options? No, you get a stupid vest and a stupid notepad and a stupid hat, and you will like it!
I know the drill, I was a waiter at one point in my life. Not right after college, no, right after college I was too busy being drunk and depressed that college was actually over and pissed that everyone thought blacking-out on a Tuesday while watching a pre-season game between the Lions and the Chiefs wasn't fun anymore. I waited tables during my junior year of college, for about three months, before I realized waiting tables sucks and that bartending fucking ruled. But during that short time wearing an apron and carrying burning hot plates of Baked Ziti while trying not to drop it on anyone's head or eat it myself, I developed a serious respect for the job. What I also realized was, besides how hard waiting tables is and how little respect you get, I also realized that the more shitty I acted, the less cash I received as a tip. And that sucks. You feel like a fucking slave when you wait on some fat shit and his fat wife and his fat fucking kids for an hour and get nothing in return because you were staring at them like they were infected with the Bubonic Plague the whole time. And watching those dumplings waddle out of the restaurant, well, those were the times I wished assault with a deadly weapon were legal.
So, I'm here to tell you what you shouldn't do while waiting tables. Not should, shouldn't. I do give a fuck about what makes a good waiter. I only know about the shit that makes you suck and makes me hate you. And that's why I'm going to help you maximize your cash, because I know you need to scrape together as much as cash possible in order to move out of your cushy rent-free room at your parent's house and move into a 200 sq. ft. closet on the Lower East Side that is musty and smells like a corpse and is infested with cat-sized rats so you can bang that slut girlfriend of yours without having to shush her every time you here the floorboards above you creek. Just trying to live the dream, I know, I know, so listen closely, or continue to enjoy sneaking people in and out of your basement for the next five years of your twenties.
First, don't fucking forget to read me the menu specials. I need to know the specials when I sit down. If I'm forced to ask for them, but am then told that they are right there on the back of the menu, I will have to decide whether or not I jump up and sink my steak knife into your head or slink down in my chair and pout for being an idiot.
Second, don't forget to check on me at least once throughout my meal and see if I'm doing okay. Just once. Not ten times - once. Make sure I don't anything for my food, or check to see if I'm missing some sort of fancy sauce. If I get food that requires sauce, and it isn't there, I fucking freak. Don't promise and titillate me with the idea of Chipotle Honey Baked BBQ Sauce if you're just going to deny me of the tangy heaven. And also, I cannot concentrate on any other fucking thing happening around me if I run out of whatever I'm drinking. A man could set his fucking face on fire in protest of the restaurant's use of chemicals in their meat, but I'll be in a complete fucking panic - WATER, I NEED SOME FUCKING WATER TO DRINK! ARE THEY FUCKING BLIND? CAN'T THEY SEE I'M DEHYDRATED???
Also, I know you see me sitting here, my plate wiped clean like it just came out of the dishwasher, so stop stalling and bring me the check already. I'm going to puke, I need to go home. I don't want any coffee, it's ten o'clock at fucking night, just bring me the fucking check. I don't need to see it, I know you added in a calamari salad that I didn't order, but I don't care, just run my fucking debit card so I can get the fuck out of here before I walk over to that table of ten wearing business casual and start tossing glasses of wine in their brazenly loud, stupid faces. I stopped eating thirty minutes ago, why the fuck am I still sitting here being ashamed of how disgusting I am and being forced to listen to shithead over there tell the table about his golf handicap? What did I do to you to deserve this?
Oh yeah, and waiter, don't try to be my friend. I don't want to banter with you. I don't want to bullshit or trade hysterical remarks back and forth. Do you really give a fuck how my night was? Do you? Well since you insist, I'll tell you how it was - I strangled a drifter behind the Port Authority Bus Station and then rolled his body into the Hudson River. Why? Because HE WOULDN'T LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! Now explain to me why do you feel the need to linger? No offense, but I don't want to become friends with you. Are we going to start hanging out, going to Yankees games together? That would be fucking weird.
Wife: Who are you going to the game with?
Wife: Who's Frank? Do I know a Frank?
Me: Yeah, Frank from Lucia's. The waiter, Frank, from Lucia's.
Wife: (packs suitcase and leaves)
And most importantly - possibly the most important thing for a waiter to remember actually - do not recommend an entree unless I ask you for your opinion. Appetizer suggestion? Fine. Tell me all about those fucking scallops. If they suck, I can recover with the main course. But never fuck with my head when I'm trying to order the shit that will no longer make me hungry. Seriously, if I have something in my head that I am set on ordering, and you go and say, "You should try the Filet, it's divine!" I will burn the fucking restaurant down. Because I will end up agonizing over the decision and ultimately get what you tell me, because I am a sheep and assume we share the same taste. And then if I don't like what you suggested, it will be all your fault, and my night will be fucking ruined. And I will probably be distracted on the drive home and accidentally run over a couple who just got engaged. Do you want that hanging over your head forever? Well I don't, so let me order the chicken and let me be already.