A little venting . . .

Now that I’ve been waiting tables a little while, I’ve found that you can pretty much tell what your tip will be like the moment you walk up to the table. Some people are super friendly from the moment you say hello. They joke around a little, they are polite, they ask for things as opposed to ordering you to bring them. Generally, with decent ticket times, these people don’t overtip, but they tip well. Others are busy talking to each other, or on their cellphones chatting, and seem annoyed that you have interrupted them to ask for their order. I can usually recover enough to earn a respectable tip as long as I wow them and take care of their needs without making my presence known.

Then there are the tables like I had last night. I hate to admit this, but the guests (that’s what we call them – guests – even though I would invite very few of these people to join me anywhere) are generally women. Before I even open my mouth to greet them, they are eyeing me up and down, scowling, and letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that I will not be able to meet their ridiculous expectations. Their drinks will have too much ice (or not enough), their silverware will be too spotty, they will not have enough napkins, the mashed potatoes with steam rolling off them will be too cold, they will need extra butter, etc.

The worst part about these guests is that they seem to make sport of it, of trying to knock me down. They do not want to tip, do not believe in tipping, and will go out of their way to justify tipping very little or not at all.

They start with the order.

As happened last night: two women were seated in my section while I was waiting on a large party. I refilled drinks for the party, and then I walked to the two-top to greet them. I could tell how it was going to go before I even said hello. They complained that it was too cold in the restaurant. I said I could ask them manager to turn off the ceiling fans. The first woman said, No, don’t bother. Then they complained the table was too small. I offered to have the hostess move them to another table since it was late and the restaurant was fairly empty.

No, we’re fine.

Then why complain?

Then the order – two pancake combos, both with substitutions (which we don’t do, but whatever), both with specific instructions (make the bacon extra crispy, but not burnt or I’ll send it back). Then they want biscuits and cornbread (these don’t come with pancakes, and technically I’m supposed to charge them, but again, whatever) and extra butter and jelly. I ask what kind – they don’t care.

In less than five minutes, I put in their special orders, fix them drinks and bring them their bread and an assortment of jelly. Plus extra napkins.

They need more lemons. Which I bring.

And some water. Which I bring.

And they wanted strawberry jelly. Which I bring (Can't they just ask for this all at once?).

I even bring them, within ten minutes of their order, extra syrup with their pancakes and crispy bacon with hashbrowns instead of eggs and a side of grits instead of bacon.

Woman #1 puts a fork into her pancakes as I ask them if there is anything else I can bring them, and before I can even step away, she shoves the plate back at me.

These are like rubber! I won’t eat them. And she takes Woman #2’s plate and shoves it at me too.

I tell her to shove them –

Okay, I apologize and tell them I’ll have more cooked and out to them immediately. I do not argue. I do not ask her if she’s sure they’re not okay. I do not ask her friend to try them and see what she thinks. I do not even point out to her that she has yet to take a bite of the pancakes, that she hasn’t even put syrup on them, that she hasn’t done anything more than put her goddamned fork in them!

But she says it anyway.

I want to speak to a manager.

For the record, this is the point at which I, as a server, no longer care about her as a customer. I no longer care about refilling her drinks. I no longer care if she has a pleasant dining experience; I just want her to eat her damned food and drink her damned drinks and get the hell up from my table so I can get some new guests and earn more than the two dollars an hour the restaurant is paying me to put up with her bullshit. But as I posted yesterday, my mother taught me better than that. Damn my mother.

Absolutely, I tell her. And I rush into the kitchen, send a manager to the table, and get the pancakes recooked and back to her table within three minutes.

She doesn’t even thank me when I bring them back. Or when I come back to ask if this stack of pancakes (identical to the previous stack) is to her liking. Or when I bring them extra biscuits. Or drink refills. Or to go boxes. All without being asked.

And when they leave, for all my trouble, they leave no tip.

Which is what I expected when I got to the table.

Work 101. Instructor: dhf's mother. Credits: 0. Day/Time: MTWTFSS 12:01am - 12:00am

Things my mother taught me:

1. There is work to be done. Someone has to do it. You can’t count on anyone else to do it right, or at all, so you might as well do it yourself.

2. If the work is not done, it will only create more work down the road, and since #1 almost always holds true, you will be the one doing more work.

3. At any given task your co-workers will be one or all of the following:
a. Lazy
b. Incompetent
c. Absent
Therefore, it is in your best interest to help them out (ie do all the work) to avoid # 2.

4. Work that is not done will bring shame and condemnation on you and your entire family.

5. Once the work is done, there is more time for fun, and the fun will be made even more fun by the fact that you don’t have the thought of undone work hanging over your head.


Things most of my co-workers’ mothers apparently taught them:

1. Life is not about work. It is about joy, and sunshine, and gossiping about the little people, who are working. Don’t waste your time doing something someone else can do better.

2. Tasks left unfinished will be completed by the next person, who let’s face it, is probably beneath you anyway, so who cares?

3. If someone else is willing to help you out or do it for you, let them. They likely:
a. Enjoy it
b. Have nothing better to do
c. Are too stupid to know any better or do anything else
If not, they would stop.

4. You are a special person, with special gifts; do not squander your time on details and menial tasks (See #2).

5. Have fun! There will be plenty of time for work later.

Ignoring ignorance

In the evenings, because I have nothing better to do than earn money to pay the man, after my full-time job, I wait tables at a certain nationally-known family restaurant, one you'd find along most interstates. Last night while on a smoke break, I was chatting it up with a couple of the grill cooks and a manager who were also playing a game of catch with a package of napkins. Why napkins? Why not, I guess. Anyway, the manager admonished one of the grill cooks for throwing "like a girl."

I could have let it go.

I didn't. I let a lot of things go - but that's just one of those comments that really irks me. Partially because it's sexist. But more so because I am a girl, and I can throw harder and farther than most of the men I know. Granted, I hang out with non-athletic, intellectual types, but this just further proves my point - athletic ability is not tied to gender.

I digress.

My objection to the remark and subsequent demonstration of how this girl throws, led to more discussion, my use of the word misogynist (in jest), my necessary explanation of the word misogynist, and half-hearted protest from the twenty-something grill cook who claimed that he "loves women" and could not possibly be sexist, followed by more discussion. And another cigarette (because, well, it was slow in the restaurant last night and I'd already earned my $2.16 an hour making sweet tea for the bastards).

At this point a third grill cook stepped into the break area - I have no idea who was actually making the food at this point, but not my concern - and upon hearing the discussion going on said to the woman-lover that he should keep it down because "isn't someone here a . . . feminist?" The best part is that he whispered the F-word.

No wait, the best part is that the woman-lover, who was standing slightly behind me as I ashed my cigarette, shiftily pointed to me and this caused the whisperer to blush a little. Or maybe it was fear that colored his cheeks.

I am not a doormat. I am ferocious. Hear me roar.

As I said before, I hold my tongue most of the time. Especially at the restaurant, one famous for recent lawsuits involving discriminatory behavior. On one hand this makes me a bad feminist, but on the other hand, I have a fourteen year old to feed and since I don't own a farm, not even one cow, I need the extra cash. So I try my best to ignore the ignorance. I've only discussed the F-word with one or two other servers, but apparently that is enough to have it spread through the place like porn on the internet.

"See that waitress over there? She's one of those damned, hippie feminists! Can you believe it?!"

As if I am a Satanist. Or a pedophile.

I think to them, those choices are less frightening.