Gratuitous Nature

I keep thinking a tipping guide is in order, but it seems redundant. I think anyone conscientious enough to worry about such things is already sophisticated enough to know how to tip properly and most of the people that are the 'problem children' can't read and certainly don't use 'The Google'. So I shan't bother with that; instead, dear reader, I will provide a tipping guide for the servers reading this. As in, here is the correct mentality as regards our bread and butter...

A very common mistake many less experienced servers make is imagining a correlation between the quality of the dining experience they facilitated for the customer and the amount of money they receive for their trouble.
Let me save you some time and a bit of dignity:

The mechanism by which you get money in return for a job well done is the same as the one in which the Tooth Fairy gives you money for a great big molar: fictional. As in, IT DOES NOT EXIST.

He's actually a pretty good tipper

People's tipping behaviour is derived from their respective personality types much more than any action on the part of the server. Countless studies back this up. Each person has a magic number that ties into their concepts of empathy and  general amiability. Some people are really nice. Really nice people are not going to penalise you for things that are obviously beyond your control, such as what items are on the menu and how much they cost, or if there is a pubic hair in their tiramisu. A nice person isn't going to look for an excuse to stiff you. If you get a great tip from a nice person, don't go getting a big head and for god's sake don't go bragging about it to the other servers. It's bad manners. And your ass might get jumped in the parking lot.

Likewise, a raging asshole is not going to be generous with their money. There are dickweeds out there who put their cigarette butts in the Salvation Army collection bucket and swerve to hit kittens. And unfortunately for us, these bastards also go out to eat. Don't bother trying to win them over or think that you can wow them into being kind to you and don't go analysing the paltry tip they gave you or try to critique yourself. Their stinginess is a character flaw that has NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. Don't bother trying to flirt, guilt or bend over backwards accommodating somebody's ridiculous peculiarity, like counting the ice cubes you put in their glass (yes there are crazy bitches that specify ice cube quantities, I wish that were a joke but it isn't) for a tip. Anybody that wouldn't be ashamed to demand that of you should be institutionalised, not catered to. I firmly believe that if we would all just stop spoiling them they would just get over themselves eventually. Or not, but either way man- dignity. You just can't put a price on that. But if you can, you belong in the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, not a restaurant.

no the OTHER whorehouse...

The Zen Buddhists have the perfect attitude, for waiting tables and everything else besides:

Desires and expectations are the sources of disappointment. Don’t cling to them. Do your work, walk your way.

You! Out of the GENE POOL!!

I think we can all agree that the food allergy thing has gotten completely out of hand. The other day I sold some food to a soccer mom that was given the thankless task of getting food for some kid (not hers, she was quick to point out) that had a 'protein allergy'. She was terrified of giving that poor little bastard the meal that would be his last. She finally decided to give him a big bag of steamed, unseasoned broccoli just to be safe. Personally, I think the kid's mom should be slapped for saddling this poor woman with that responsibility. The food allergy people are like that. They place the onus on us, the people who serve the food, to not kill them. I'm dead serious- I have had this many times and I'm sure you have too- "There aren't any (insert offending food item here) in this salad are there?" they chide "because I don't want to die...." Um. First of all, if I knew that if I ate an onion, or a piece of an onion I would go into anaphylaxis and die, I would not eat out. That is obvious. Here is the less obvious way of looking at this:


DISCLAIMER
If you or someone you know has a food allergy just stop reading now. Also if you are a sensitive type. Go watch Touched By An Angel reruns or kitten videos or whatever it is you people do.

                             He's just a damn cat and even he knows how dumb this is

If you are the type of person that can be murdered by a Nutter Butter AND you are dumb enough to put your life in the hands of a total stranger who gets paid $2.13 an hour then MAYBE there's a reason Mother Nature wants your ass dead. Notice how I said Mother Nature? That's because I'm not advocating eugenics here. People are way too flawed to make the 'who lives and who dies' decisions. But Nature's system is elegant and irrefutable. It got us to the top of the food chain as long as we stay out of shark infested waters and wear bear bells when hiking. But when pondering the question of what is a kid with a protein allergy made of I wonder how we as a species went from being able to put the fear into a fucking WOOLY MAMMOTH with nothing but a sharpened stick to people who can't eat bread.

"Holy shit-is that a Nutter Butter you have there? Please- anything but that!"

It is not my fault that you are genetically inferior to other humans. Do not try to imply that your deficiency is my problem and that if you die because I served you a brownie with a fragment of walnut on it your blood is on my hands. You're the one Mother Nature has put a bounty on not me. Stay home and drink protein shakes (if you're not allergic to protein anyway) and think about getting yourself sterilized before you spread your sickly DNA all over the place.

School of Hard Knocks

It's a good idea to try not to get inside the head of the people you are waiting on. If there were one piece of advice I would give a fledgling server (other than GET OUT NOW!) that would be it. That and the only equation that a server needs:
                                      quality of service ≠ good tip
 I repeat: do NOT try to get in their heads. And do not allow them to get into yours. There must be a psychic wall of separation. Once in a while you will encounter a wiseguy and challenging as it is you must maintain a professional demeanor. Take my advice, I'm not using it.

The other night I had the misfortune of waiting on a couple that was, contrary to all logic, on  a date at the Fajita Factory- possibly the least romantic venue since the pit in Silence of the Lambs.

Here it is made of Lego's. Thanks internet. And-WTF?

 But there they were, and it was one of those blokes whose solution to pattern baldness is shaving and waxing his head. That works for Bruce Willis. And only Bruce Willis. Try saying "Yippie ki yay, motherfucker!" and see if it sounds badass. It doesn't. Bruce Willis has powers other men lack, among them looking cool with a shiny bald dome head.

We at the Fajita Factory are forced to introduce ourselves and our 'zone partner' (don't you just love corporate America? So inventive!) during the greet. I do this and Ersatz Bruce Willis asks gamely (as 75% of them do) that "It takes two of you to wait on us?". After my veritable seizure of laughter and much wiping of tears of joy at his cleverness I respond, "Haven't you heard-it's the new economy. Two people have to share one job."

"Wow! You've got an answer for everything don't you? What is E=MC²?"
And so on. After some banter in which he doggedly refuses to get to the point and just order food he hits me with this beloved and well worn old saw:
 "You're really smart! Did you go to college?"

I just stare at him.

How is it possible that this Ersatz Bruce Willis doesn't understand how insulting it is to assume that because  I am waiting on him that I wouldn't have heard of the Theory of Relativity? Or that I didn't go to college. I know lots of brilliant philosophers and historians that sling pizza and beer.

"I didn't go to college actually. I hate school."

He just gapes at me. Literally.
"But...you're SO intelligent!" And I cannot stress enough to you, dear reader how thoroughly, unabashedly shocked at this fact dumbshit Ersatz Bruce Willis is. Like anyone could be educated without college (Abraham Lincoln) or that someone with a functioning mind would be waiting tables. Perhaps I should be doing something more dignified like politics or applying my laser like intellect at an office job putting cover sheets on the TPS reports?

Only 14 more years of this and I can pay off those student loans!

"What are you doing here?" he sputters.

I'm waiting for my Genius Grant from the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, that's what.

Tea Time

Friday night brings a slightly different crowd. It's the "♫ I got a li'l change in my pocket goin' jing a ling a ling ♫" crowd. That's right. Payday. Time to treat the clan to a fancy dinner at the Fajita Factory.

My favorite table this evening was a family of paint chip eaters that took exception to our methods of brewing sweet tea. If you are reading this and you don't live in the Deep South you may be fortunate enough to be unaware of the unique importance of sweet tea in the Holy Trinity of the South. One day I'll get around to chronicling this. Actually, I can do this right now. It goes like this:

"Every knee shall bow"

                

  

Jesus Christ/Johnny Van Zant

Elvis drinks this in heaven with General Lee

   


 Wow that was easier than I      thought.










 The conversation went like this:

Bubba: "I want something else to drink. Your sweet tea is nasty."

Me: "Oh? Is there something wrong with it?"

Bubba: "It's nasty."

Me: "I haven't had any complaints about it tonight."

Bubba: "It tastes nasty."

Me: "Hm. Well, I can get you something else, but I'm wondering if there's something wrong with it so I can    troubleshoot it. How does it taste?"

Bubba: "Nasty."

Me: "Is there another adjective you might be able to use to describe it?"

Bubba stares at me. I am beginning to get used to being stared at by my tables now.

Bubba: "Taste it. It tastes nasty."

Me: "It wouldn't help if I tasted it, I don't ever drink the stuff. I wouldn't know what it's supposed to taste like."

I may as well have said I only drink the blood of orange kittens. More staring. And why does he just keep saying nasty??

Bubba: "Do ya'll put bakin' soda in it?"

Me: "No."

Bubba: "Ya'll need to put bakin' soda in it. That makes it taste good. It...makes...it..uhh."

Bubba has gone and used up all his words.

Me: "It neutralizes some of the tannic acid and makes it less bitter?"
I'm honestly trying to help here.

Bubba's cousin declares: "It just ain't sweet enough!"


There you have it: the definition of 'nasty'.

Have A Drink On Me

Sometimes the sheer animal stupidity of people is too much to let pass without comment.

Last night I was waiting on a table of assorted hayseeds who were gathered together at the Fajita Factory for what I can only assume was a mini family reunion/pre incestuous group sex dinner. They obviously didn't get out much, and judging by the number of offspring present apparently didn't get the memo that people that devoid of any positive attributes should limit their reproduction to...say...zero.
After a chaotic dinner in which the senior hayseed mysteriously found it necessary to inform me repeatedly that he was 'from Georgia' they settled in for a marathon conversation about banjos and Nascar or whatever.
I was sweeping the appalling mess of nacho chips, goldfish crackers and powdered baby formula packets (only the finest chemical cocktails for the infants in the 'Burbs; Jesus doesn't like to see women nursing babies, it's pornographic) when Pa did the unthinkable. He came and found me with an urgency that would suggest the table was on fire. I hate it when they come looking for you. The absolute worst is when they wander into  the kitchen. The only time it's acceptable for some customer to wander into the kitchen is to inform everyone there was a zombie army gathering out in the parking lot, or a demon dog backing a nerdy accountant into the window.

"Ok. Who brought the dog?"

Not because they need more honey mustard. Anyway, here is the script of what happened next:

Pa: "Din't you  see me waving at you? I was doing this."(pantomimes very dramatic waving)

Remember this is the same guy that told me like 4 times he was from Georgia. For some reason.

Me: "Um, no actually. This sweeping is some difficult stuff that requires razor sharp focus and all of my mental ability."

Pa: "She needs you." (points to the table)

When I get to the table she is quite perturbed and snaps at me
Ma: "Can I git more drink?"
This is not really a question, and the tone would be more appropriate if she were saying something like 'I just kilt yer best hog, Hatfield!'

I look at the table and point to a full, frosty glass of coke sitting right in front of her next to her empty glass.
Me: "How about right there? Is that one going to work for you?"

She stares at it for a second and (I swear to God this is all true) says, pointing to Cletus "that's his." Except his is pronounced 'hee-is'.

Me: " No, he is drinking a Diet Coke. That is your Coke."
She is really incensed about my dogged refusal to be the one in the wrong here. Apparently.
Refusing to give it up she turns on Cletus.
Ma: "Is that yer drink rat theyur?"
Cletus: "Yeah."
Ma: "Are yew drankin' Diet Coke?"
Cletus (getting uncomfortable now) " Uh huh."

She looks at me. I look at her. She says, angrily, "Well I din't know yew brought a new one. You din't say nothin'."
Me: "Right. Usually I have this bell I ring when I bring drinks and I announce it like (ringing invisible bell) 'Hear Ye, Hear Ye, I bring a new drink for Milady'. But I left it at home today. Sorry about that."
They're all staring at me now. I think they're actually wondering if I do have a bell, and if it's shiny.

I polish it every night.

You dropped a bomb on me.

Today I helped  out a young co-worker by cashing out an old man that placed a carryout order. His change was ten  dollars and rather than give him a ten spot I gave him a five and five ones. For some reason this really, really chapped his ass and he did not hesitate to tell me so. He stared disconsolately at the bills in his hand and mumbled an old fart monologue for a bit. Gradually, intelligible words began to emerge and he wanted to know why I had to give him so many small bills. I chirpily (that's totally a word- chirpily. Like a perky little sparrow) replied "So you can give this young man here a tip, of course!"

He found this outrageous. He stared at me, steely eyed and spat out, " That's what I figured. I know what you're doing!"
He was on to me! Nonplussed I just smiled sweetly and said,"Well he has to make a living doesn't he?"
Wrong answer again! And now he starts to get really ugly and says,"If this is what he's doing for a living then he's screwed anyway."

Still refusing to let this old bastard get under my skin I say, still smiling, "Well he's young, he's still  got time."
To which he sneers back, "So what's your excuse?"

Just like that, he drops the bomb. And the little sparrow is gone.

Another Mother's Day

So I may be a bit late in getting around to commenting on the recent Mother's Day fiasco in Dining Out Land, but if I were the proactive type I probably wouldn't be stuck in Restaurant Hell either so...

Here's a list of things your Mom doesn't want for Mother's Day unless she is a Cenobite from the movie Hellraiser. If you don't know what I'm talking about go put Hellraiser on your Netflix queue this instant. It's a heartwarming classic about a lovelorn lady trying to reconnect with the love of her life. And there are Cenobites. They look like this:

Chocolates? You shouldn't have!

anyway here it is:  6 Things Your Mom DOESN'T want for Mother's Day

1. She doesn't want you to show her you love her by making your server's life a living hell. You cannot make up for years of being an ungrateful and horrid child by bullying your waitress into 'spoiling' your mom. This means that when you are treating mom by taking her out to a restaurant on the second busiest day of the year for the restaurant industry along with every other bastard in America that a table isn't going to grow out of the firmament for her, the chefs aren't going to stop cooking everyone else's food so they can cook your mom's food first and they are not going to give you your own concierge to ensure that your mom gets everything she wants instantly. She knows this. And so should you.

2. She doesn't want to get something expensive from the menu. You will only embarrass her if you try to goad her into letting you treat her with something extravagant that she wouldn't normally order. There is no way you can possibly atone for all the years of  deprivation she has suffered because of you so don't bother trying to reverse the order of things that you established years ago. She is a bona fide martyr now. If she wants to suffer through soup and a sandwich you just have to swallow the guilt. Try washing it down with a nice sauvignon blanc. It complements the taste of regret nicely.

3. She doesn't want you and your siblings to fight over the bill. The more adamant you are about trying to pay the less worthy a son you probably were. Everyone knows this.

4.She doesn't want you to get tanked so you can deal with your siblings or your dad. If you must, you're supposed to show up early and hit the bar before everyone else gets there. That way she can pretend your slurred speech is because you're tired from all the hard work you've been doing and not have to stare at a pile of empty Bud Light bottles on the table that serve as a testament to how dysfunctional your family actually is.

5. She doesn't want to eat at the restaurant you picked. She wants to eat at a restaurant you've never heard of because it's a restaurant that little old ladies like, one you wouldn't be caught dead in, unless you have a Golden Girls fetish. But since you don't really know your mom as a person, just as a caretaking unit, you wouldn't know that. And by the way, just to blow your mind, she has a dildo. Yup. You're welcome.


But most importantly:

6. She doesn't want you to act like you care about her once a year because Hallmark or Teleflora needs to move some product.

if you give this to your mom when you're a  kid you're adorable. If you give this to her when you're an adult you're a serial killer.