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.