This is why your server hates you

Friday night my last table just before cuts went up was a four top – an old white dude, his wife, their daughter, and the daughter’s teenage son who wanted nothing but water and biscuits (hooray, please let me refill this glass for you seven times while I run back and forth fetching you free bread and jellies. No, really. Nothing would make me happier). After being informed that junior would not be paying for a meal, I proceeded to take orders for the rest of the table, starting with junior’s mama.

She ordered breakfast, and when I asked her how she would like her eggs cooked, she thought about it for a minute and finally settled on scrambled. I smiled and turned my attention to her mother in the next seat, but before giving me her order, the older woman told her daughter, in a very snotty tone, “Do you want cheese on them? Because if you don’t want cheese on them, you have to tell them, or they’ll just put cheese on your eggs!”

Her daughter looked up at me, non verbally checking the accuracy of her mother’s outburst. I simply shook my head and said, “No.”

Right then and there my tip went down by ten percent.

“Well, they always put cheese on your father’s eggs and he doesn’t want it,” the older woman said to her daughter, as if exposing a global conspiracy between restaurants and the dairy industry.

“We will definitely not put cheese in the eggs,” I said, then, “What can I get for you today?”

She ordered, without looking up from her menu, obviously steaming about oeufs avec cheese, and when she was finished, she pushed her menu toward me, letting it hover in the air in front of her husband’s face. I very slowly finished writing down her order before taking it from her.

When the husband finally ordered his breakfast, I figured out why the old dude is always getting cheese in his scrambled eggs. “I’d like the pancake breakfast with bacon,” he mumbled, “and I’d like the eggs scrambled without cheese.”

So there it is, I thought, the reason dude is always getting what he thinks he didn’t ask for. If my old dude’s wife hadn’t raised such a stink about it, I probably would have served him and charged him for the dreaded cheese in his eggs, just as psychic bitch predicted.

Why? Because guests don’t know how to fucking order and because they don’t speak up. At full capacity, our restaurant seats over 200 people. Add to that the crowd of non-seated, waiting for a table people. And add to that ten to fifteen servers, two hostesses, maybe a couple of busboys, five grill cooks, two managers, two backup cooks, one prep cook, and whoever manages to show up in dish – all engaged in conversation. Add to that the clank of dishes being set on tables, thrown into bus tubs, and dropped on the floor. Add to that the phone ringing and cash registers slamming shut. And add to that three children running and giggling through the restaurant and one screaming baby. Always one screaming baby.

And I, the server, am standing at the end of your table, focusing intently on your every word as you stare into your menu and whisper your order to me as if we’re in hiding and raising your voice too much would let the serial killer outside the door know we’re in here. Even when I ask guests to speak up, using the pretense that I’m just deaf, most only raise their volume a fraction of a decibel.

So when you say to me, in your tiny voice, “Bring me a Coke with no lemon,” all I catch is “Coke” and “lemon.” And because a Coke is not served with lemon, has not ever been served with lemon, and is not listed on the printed menu you are holding in front of your mouth as you try to communicate with me as including a lemon, it can be assumed that the only reason you would mention a lemon is because you want a fucking lemon. Difficult concept to grasp, I know.

I really hate having to write titles for these things . . .

For a while there, I was in a slump at the restaurant. The hostesses seemed to seat me with nothing but two tops of old people and large parties consisting mostly of children. High maintenance but low checks. A lot of two dollar tips. I would get excited every time I saw guests over four feet tall with a full head of non-gray hair being led to one of my tables. Maybe, I would think, maybe they’ll order the ribeye and dessert and the kitchen won’t screw anything up.

All hope for a decent tip would leave, however, as soon as I stepped up to the table and the complaints began – why did they have to wait so long for a table? Why didn’t we have anything other than vegetable soup today? Why is their silverware dirty (spotty)? The answer to all of these questions was apparently that I am a bad server and screwed everything up. At least that’s what they told me through the tip they did not leave.

But I’d had enough. I’d had enough of the ass-kissing and unnecessary apologizing all in order to maybe squeeze out fifteen percent from these ungrateful bastards (Why is it taking them so long to recook that meal you dropped? It isn’t my fault that your server ran into my kid while he was chasing his brother around the dining room!). No more, I thought. No more will I smile politely while guests complain about stupid shit. No more will I answer their stupid questions as if they are perfectly valid. No more will I have to ask each and every guest in a party of seven the exact same thing because none of them are paying attention. No more.

Some examples:

Guest: I need more napkins!
Me: Sorry. One per customer. Perhaps you should have worn long sleeves today.
Result: Laughter and 20% tip. (I brought them more napkins obviously)

Guest: (after I knocked over a glass of water and broke it at the table behind them) Guess you have a case of the dropsies!
Me: Am I gonna have to cut you?
Result: Laughter. Man’s wife pats me on the arm. 23% tip.

Guest: I’d like a peach cobbler for dessert.
Me: I’m sorry, but we’re out.
Guest: That’s ridiculous! I came in here just for that.
Me: I’m very sorry.
Guest: I just can’t believe this. How could you run out?
Me: I’m not sure. I only ate seven of them before I came on shift.
Result: Guest stares at me for a moment, then laughs and calls me ‘cheeky.’ 30% tip and tells the manager I did an awesome job.

Guest: (looking around a full and very busy dining room) Why did it take so long for us to get a table?
Me: (as other servers and bussers fly past me in both directions) The Redskins’ game is on and we were all watching in back. Now can we make this quick? Half time is almost over.
Guest: Yeah, well what’s the score?
Result: 25% tip

Guest: My god! Did they have to kill the cow before cooking my steak?
Me: Yes, actually. We had one tied up out back, but some neighborhood kids keep letting it loose. Don't worry though, we had a couple of dishwashers chase it down. Your steak should be out as soon as we get some clean plates to serve it on.
Result: Everyone else at the table laughs. When I bring the steak, the guest asks what the cow's name was. I tell him "Patience." More laughter. 20% and a verbal tip (I used that to buy smokes on the way home)

For the past two weeks I’ve just been myself – my bitchy, sarcastic self – and it’s changed everything. I’d been holding back before, not saying what was on my mind, not becoming incredulous when someone asked why the food for their party of fifteen wasn’t already on the table when they ordered a whole ten minutes ago, apologizing for things that were beyond my control. I’m still not verbalizing every thought that comes into my head. I try to refrain from using the words ‘bitch’ or ‘alpha male jackass’ when standing at a table. But otherwise, I’ve pretty much let loose.

And I’ve been averaging about twenty-five percent every night. Sometimes more.

Go figure.

N-O. How do you pronounce that again?

One of the bittersweet joys of living so far away from family and being too poor to travel is that I get to spend my holidays alone. Just me and the kid doing whatever we want. No splitting time between my mother’s family and my father’s before rushing the kid over to his own father’s house. No family bickering. No going out of my way to accommodate everyone else’s timelines and putting up with their little eccentricities. Just peace. And quiet. And time for silent reverence.

Ahhh.

So I was getting pretty excited about Thanksgiving. The university gives us Friday off and we only work a half day on Wednesday, so I was looking forward to a four and a half day weekend. Of course, I can’t afford to take the time off from the restaurant, but still, only working one job is a vacation. And since my availability doesn’t include Thursdays (or Saturdays – I have to have one day to do housework and grocery shopping), I’ve been looking forward to the extra full day of rest for months now.

Since we weren’t planning to go to Iowa to see family, and our kitchen is much too small for me to be preparing a big feast, I thought I’d take the kid out to dinner, overtip the poor server who had to work the holiday, then go home and spend the rest of the day playing video games and watching holiday movies while further stuffing ourselves on a few well-chosen snacks.

Exciting? No. Just what I want and need? Completely.

But it was not to be. Several weeks ago, a friend of ours invited us over for a T-Day dinner. I thanked her and said that it sounded nice, but I did not say yes. I also didn’t say no. Then a couple weeks ago, she called to ask if my son could babysit and in the course of our conversation, brought up Thanksgiving dinner. It quickly became clear that by not declining the invitation, I had accepted.

I couldn’t back out at that point, so definite plans were made. This is the same friend who gave me a place to stay this summer while I was apartment hunting, and the same friend who took me to the beach for some much needed rest. And while I don’t feel an obligation to accept her invitation, I also don’t want them to feel that I don’t care enough about them to spend the holiday with them, especially when (as most people might see it) I have nothing better to do.

And they only live ten minutes away. I figured the kid and I could still sleep in a little, get in a movie or some festive zombie-killing on the X-Box, hang out, cook and dine with my friends, and still have a few hours of down time in the evening.

This also was not to be.

The other night at the restaurant, the assistant GM sidled up to me (yes, he really did sidle).

AGM: I’m only asking you this because I have to . . .
Me: You want me to work Thanksgiving.
AGM: (slumping down by leaning on the counter to make himself smaller than me) We could really use you.
Me: You know, I used to like you.
AGM: (batting his pretty blond eyelashes) You can handle the traffic. We need the experience on the floor.
Me: I’m liking you less and less right now.
AGM: You could work morning or evening. It would really help us out.
Me: I don’t like you at all.
AGM: (puts his head on his arm and looks up at me)
Me: (in my head) Fuuuuuuuck!
AGM: The shifts are eight to two or two to ten.
Me: Is the morning busy?
AGM: (stands up straight now that he has what he wants) We’re on a wait by eight-thirty.
Me: You suck. (calling after him as he walks away) I mean that. I really can't stand you!

I need the money. Fucking money.

And I figured it wouldn’t be so bad. I have a few extra hours on Wednesday between leaving the university early and my shift at the restaurant when the kid and I can hang out. I’ll go in to the restaurant and make (I hope) some great money on Thursday and still make it to dinner at my friend’s house, then I’ll have until Friday at five to do whatever I want. Plus my usual Saturday.

So I talked to my friend a little while ago to finalize some plans for me to pick up a bed she is giving me (see, how could I turn down her invitation?). And I told her that I would have to work until mid-afternoon on Thursday, but that the kid and I would be there for dinner. No big deal, she said. She even offered to pick the kid up early so I could come straight to her house from work if I wanted. Oh, and by the way, she had some bad news.

It seems her six year old daughter (adorable) came home from school last night and declared herself a vegetarian. Eating animals is cruel. And because eating animals is cruel, she forbade her parents from cooking up and serving an already dead turkey. And because my friends are very progressive and always support their daughters in whatever their endeavors, we will not be having turkey on Thanksgiving. We will be having no meat of any kind.

Again – Fuck!

So, to recap:

dhf’s original Turkey-Day plans:
-Go out for drinks with work friends after Wednesday night’s shift because I have the next day off.
-Sleep in because I have the day off.
-Watch parades on television with the kid.
-Go out to dinner.
-Come home and eat junk food and play video games with the kid.
-Maybe go to a movie (Beowulf in 3-D at the IMAX!)


dhf’s modified Turkey-Day plans:
-Maybe have one drink after Wednesday night’s shift, depending on how early we get out because I have to be at work by eight in the morning.
-Serve pre- and post-church guests in the a.m. and lucky non-cooking bastards in the early afternoon. Hope they compensate me well for working on a holiday so they don’t have to.
-Head to my friends’ house for a lovely holiday dinner.
-Go to a movie or go home and eat junk food and kill zombies with the kid.

dhf’s final next-Thursday plans:
-Go out for too many drinks regardless of time after Wednesday night’s shift because I have to be at work early in the morning and then have a meatless Thanksgiving dinner, so why does it matter if I’m hung over.
-Drag myself out of bed and head to work where I will run my ass off for ungrateful customers who will probably bring in their kids who have likely been gorging on sweets all morning and will be hopped up on sugar, running around our restaurant with cousins they haven’t seen all year and are sooo excited to be hanging out with. Know that I’ll probably get stiffed thirty percent of the time. Two, maybe three dollars on the rest of the tables.
-Go to my friends’ house and eat vegetables and potato dishes.
-Skip the movie because I’m too hung over from the previous night’s drinking.
-Kill a shit-load of zombies because I am full of much bitterness over not being able to say no to people and spent the day doing something other than what I wanted.

Letters to my 'guests'

To the divorced dad who brought his children in for dinner:

I was standing at another table when the hostess sat you, and as soon as I finished taking their order, I greeted you. I could tell you did not think this was fast enough. I could tell by the way you tapped your polished leather shoes impatiently until I turned around. I also greeted your children who couldn’t be bothered to look up from their notebook drawings – your daughter’s of a home with two children and a mother in front of it, your son’s of a similar house on fire – long enough to acknowledge my presence or that they had been spoken to. I came right back with the tea you ordered for yourself, and nothing for your children because you bought them sodas which they brought into the restaurant. I smiled while I waited for you to decide what to eat, even though I had other tables to greet, even though you told me you were ready and seemed annoyed when I politely suggested I come back in a few moments. I only tell you this because you weren’t looking at me while you barked your order at me. And I wanted you to know. And when you told me to bring you a plate of biscuits, then as an afterthought said, “That comes with it” almost as a question, but not quite, I told you it didn’t, but I would hook you up. I did not do this because you are entitled to bread. I did it to be nice. And when I brought you the bread, and you said “the kids need some waters” – still not looking me in the eye – and put your arms behind your head, making sure to shake your shiny gold watch behind your head as you stretched and your son picked up the orange crayon to add accent to his flames, I did not “accidentally” drop the plate of bread in your lap. This too I did to be nice. And when I brought the children their water, and offered to top off your glass of tea, I understood that you were too busy staring off into nothingness to acknowledge that you had been asked a question, so I refilled it anyway. And when I brought your food out, including an extra plate so your children could split a meal, and they couldn’t be bothered to move their crayons and notebooks to make room for the plates of food and you said nothing, I only laughed and commented on how we needed to make bigger tables. And when you growled at me to “put that down over there!” even though I could not reach “over there” because your son had chosen that moment to lean across the table and throw the orange slice garnish on the ground at my feet, I did not knock him in the head with the plate, and teach him about being aware of his surroundings as I reached over him. Because I’m nice like that. And later, as I rushed down the aisle with another table’s tray of food and you stretched your foot into the aisle, almost tripping me, I did not scuff your expensive shoes. Even though I wanted to. And after you left, and I came back to bus your table, and I saw the untouched water glasses, the outside soda bottles, the pieces of wet pancake on the table and the floor, and the dollar fifty tip you left me on a twenty dollar tab, I wondered why it took your wife so long to leave your sorry ass.


To the older woman who needed to complain about something, to somebody:

You ordered roast beef with no gravy. Even though it is cooked in gravy. So I stood behind the cook while he put your portion of roast onto the grill and cooked the gravy away. I watched while he added the sides to your plate, and the moment he was finished, I brought it to your table. You might imagine my surprise when I stopped back to ask how your meal was, and you complained that it wasn’t very warm. I was almost as shocked as you were when my manager refused to comp your meal and most definitely more shocked than when you and your husband left without tipping me at all.


To the guests who come in with thirteen of your closest friends and complain to management about my service when your food does not arrive within fifteen minutes during a dinner rush on Friday night:

Go to McDonald's. Or a buffet. Or the real world. Your choice.


To the couple with the adorable little girl and the teenage son, both of whom said “please” and “thank you” and wished me a good evening as you left:

I think I love you. Please dine with us every night. Please.

Feels just like I'm walking on crumpled trash

My last three shifts at the restaurant have been with our general manager as the closer. This is never fun. Our GM is an older, grumpy white dude with no sense of humor who sucks what little joy we have at work right out of the occasion.

Our GM is obsessed with the tidiness of the restaurant. Not with the cleanliness, which would make sense because, you know, we serve food to people. No, our GM is obsessed with things being neat and orderly at all times. He walks up and down the server aisle moving trays into neat little piles and organizing stacks of napkins. I’m not kidding. But his biggest obsession seams to be the floor.

Let me just say that we sweep when there’s down time. And if one of us spills something or drops a dish, we immediately clean it up. We do this because it makes sense – no matter how busy we are, no matter how much a table is demanding bread service right that moment, we know that we cannot leave liquids or broken porcelain on the floor. It’s a safety issue. Sometimes a health code issue. But occasionally, as we are rushing through the server aisle with our trays, we drop things – straw wrappers, grill tickets, sugar packets, etc.

The GM gets irritated by this. So irritated that even during our busiest rushes, his top priority is finding someone to sweep the server aisle. Should we run some of the trays in the window before the food gets cold and we have to replate it? No, we should sweep up straw wrappers. Should we go greet the three tables the airheaded hostess just sat in our section at once? No, we should pick up those two packets of Equal that spilled out of the box.

His obsession with a tidy floor has become a joke, and no longer do any of us respond to his requests for “somebody to take a broom through here” when we have hungry, thirsty guests on the floor. It probably has something to do with the fact that just a few weeks ago, he shoved a broom in my direction despite the fact that I was already carrying a tray full of drinks and asked me to sweep the floor, and I told him, “I would, but my guests need me to do something for them. And they’re paying me more than you are.”

I don’t know why he hasn’t fired me yet.

So Friday night, realizing that none of us cared about his tidy floor, he took the broom and dustpan and swept it himself. Not without grumbling of course.

“You’re walking on trash, people!” he said, as he swept up a grill ticket. “Do you walk on trash at home? Is this how you people live?”

Most everybody ignored him or just plain didn’t hear him, as the restaurant was full of guests and we were on an hour wait, but I happened to be standing near him, making sweet tea so I could take some to my tables.

“Do you walk on trash at home?” he said to me. He even said my name. Do you walk on trash at home, dhf? As if our little question and answer would be an example for all other servers. Did you hear that? Dhf doesn't walk on trash at home. Maybe we should sweep up these crumpled napkins.

“No,” I told him. “I don't walk on trash. But I also don’t wait tables at my house, so it’s kind of a wash.”

I'm very disappointed in myself.

The coffee's probably not a safe bet, either

I’ve only dropped one tray at the restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t even a full tray – just one plate of food that slid off the corner of the tray as I pulled it out of the window. It’s amazing that I haven’t dropped more. I mean, I’m clumsy. I once fell and knocked over an end table and broke a lamp by doing nothing more than turning to face a friend who was speaking to me. Another time I tripped over the sidewalk and slammed my face into the concrete outside the library. In front of a lot of people. Who all rushed to my aid, embarrassing me even further. The worst part was I had a twenty-eight hour bus ride home ahead of me and a bad case of facial road-rash, though I'm not sure I stood out that much with the other Greyhound passengers.

Regardless, it amazes me that I am able to carry a tray full of water glasses and coffee pots and plates and soup bowls and chinchillas. Okay, scratch that last one. Just making sure you’re keeping up.

Making it through the diningroom with a fully loaded tray is pretty tough. Especially when it’s busy. Sometimes, you have ten or twelve glasses of liquid on a ten inch round tray balanced on your fingertips, and you have to make it from the kitchen to the table without spilling.

This wouldn’t be so bad if it were a straight shot, but there are always obstacles – other servers, children running around unattended, high chairs sticking out in the aisle because guests don’t listen when the hostesses tell them it isn’t safe, little old people who walk damn slow or just plain stop for no reason. Our restaurant even has these infernal rocking chairs. Which rock. And rock even harder when kids jump out of them. I can’t tell you how many servers have been taken down by the backs of these quickly abandoned rockers.

As hazardous as the diningroom is, it is nothing compared to the server aisle. Ours runs the length of the restaurant, spanning everything from the dishroom and bussing station at one end, to prep and the breakroom at the other. The grill hood (where the cooks tray up the food to be served) is in the middle of the server aisle. Opposite the grill hood is the salad cooler, salad dressing station and juice machines. Beside the grill hood are the bread stations and soup stations. And at each end of the aisle are the long counters that hold the tea and soda and coffee and hot chocolate stations.

And the aisle itself is four feet wide. If that.

On a busy day, there are ten or more servers, two managers, a couple of bussers, a server assistant, and a few more random employees all fighting for space in this aisle. Imagine carrying a tray loaded with food or beverages through there while moving as fast as you can without running because you have four tables on the floor and everybody needs a refill. Now. Right now (Damnit, where is this waitress with my sweet tea!). Sometimes I think of it in terms of football, like being a linebacker and having to pivot and turn and swivel in order to avoid the other players while trying not to drop the ball.

Last night, for example, was insanely busy, and there we were short-staffed. The dish room was backed up, the server aisle was a mess, even the grill was a little backed up, and we all had more tables than we could comfortably handle. It was three hours of chaos. Still I managed to make it through the night without dropping a thing. I was the only one.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad for a shift to be over, and I was ready to just hop in the car and get home. When I started the car though, I realized I needed to get gas, so I stopped at the BP across the street and while the car was filling I went inside to grab some caffeine. Another woman reached the door just a moment before I did and she held it open for me and we exchanged smiles and I thanked her as I walked inside. I was thinking about how nice that was, such a small thing really, but such a change after a night of angry customers and the resulting short fuses of my co-workers. I was thinking this as I opened the cooler and picked out a bottle of cola.

And as I closed the cooler door, the soda bottle slipped from my hand. And it burst. Sugary, sticky liquid exploded and fizzed out all over the floor and my pants and the pants of the woman who had just been considerate enough to hold the door for me.

The woman was very sweet about the whole thing, as was the store clerk who had to clean up the soda spilled all over the floor and splashed up the cooler doors. He even refused to let me pay for the bottle I dropped.

I was mortified.

I apologized like crazy and even joked that I had made it all night at work without dropping a tray, but couldn’t seem to handle a sealed plastic bottle.

The clerk laughed and asked me where did I work. I told him and he said maybe he’d request me next time he came in. Then he said, “I just won’t order the soup.” And he and the woman laughed.

Not funny. Not funny at all.

Abandonment issues

Uhhm, so, I almost got myself fired last night.

Okay, so the story’s not all that exciting, but here it is anyway.

I had a four table section in the second dining room and, because we were short staffed, an eight table section in smoking. Being Monday night, it wasn’t exceptionally busy, but we got a decent crowd in for dinner. I already had a couple tables down when the hostess seated a seven top in the smoking section. Mostly kids.

Yes, some people think it’s cool to sit with their kids in the smoking section. But that's not today’s rant.

Since there were five small children at the table, I asked the hostess not to seat me again for a few minutes because the presence of small children at the table generally adds two minutes per child to the ordering time:

Mom: (to kid) What would you like to drink?
Kid: I want Coke.
Mom: No Coke. How about chocolate milk?
Kid: I hate chocolate milk.
Mom: Please sit back down in your chair.
Kid: I want Coke!
Mom: I’m not ordering you soda. It’s almost bed time.
Kid: Coke!
Mom: You can have chocolate milk.
Kid: Co. Ca. Cola!
Mom: Let go of your sister’s hair. Chocolate milk or nothing.
Kid: Fine!
Mom: (to me, standing patiently beside the table) He’ll have chocolate milk.

Repeat scenario once per child.

(Here's where it gets boring. But it's called a set-up. Like the long, boring parts in sci-fi shows, where you're just picking up clues and backstory and waiting for the action.)

After I finally got the drink order for the seven top, I swung back by my other section to check on my guests and discovered that the hostess had sat me anyway. And not once, but twice. I picked up the drink orders for the new tables, being informed by one that someone else would be joining them, and headed into the kitchen for the drinks. I asked another server to drop off coffees and sweet teas in the second dining room while I went back to the seven top with bread and their drinks and got their order.

Before I put the order in, I stopped back in the second dining room, dropped off a couple checks, and checked on the two tables just sat. One wasn’t ready to order. The other was still waiting for their guest.

I put the seven top's order in and came back to the dining room where the third guest had finally joined her party. I greeted her, got her drink order, and since they weren’t ready to order food yet, I told them I’d be back. I took the order from my other table (who was ready) and put it in before coming back with the drink and finally getting the order from the three top. I came back out to the dining room with pitchers and coffee pots, refilled all my guests (including the three top) in the second, brought boxes for people who were getting ready to leave, and then went to my tables in smoking, where I had been sat again.

They gave me a drink order, asked about the soup and specials and for bread, but weren’t ready to order. They were ready when I came back, so I took their order and left to put it in. As soon as I was finished, the seven top’s food was ready in the window. I gathered all their requested condiments, asked for a couple followers, and took the food to their table. They needed more napkins and some extra dressings, which I brought right away.

When I came back into the kitchen, someone else was walking out the door with one of my trays – for the two top – but the three top wasn’t up yet, and since this was the first moment since refilling drinks I’d had, I started setting up a plate of bread to take to the three top. Just then my manager came back and said that the three top “requested your presence.”

(So here's the "action." No flying or bolts of lightning flying out of anyone's hand. No bending time - though that would have been helpful)

At this point, it had been at most, at the very, very most, fifteen minutes since I had taken that table’s order (and I refilled their drinks once after the order went in). Here is the conversation:

Woman who came in last: Where have you been?
Me: (setting down bread and plates on the table) Uhm, I’m sorry, ma’am, I have a large part-
Woman: (interrupting) You’ve left us sitting here for thirty minutes.
Me: I’m sorry, ma’am. But it hasn’t been thirty-
Woman: We had to get someone else to refill our drinks.
Me: I do apologize, ma’am. I have several other tables and a large par-
Woman: (interrupting, again, and gesturing toward the manager who is standing at the next table over) He told us you were at a large party.
Me: Yes, ma’am. Their food came up and I was-
Woman: Well, you just walked away and left us.
Me: Ma’am, I had food to bring out and another –
Woman: You didn’t even come back to refill our drinks for over thirty minutes.
Me: I do apologize, but I just took your order fifteen –
Woman: Are you telling me it hasn’t been over thirty minutes?
Woman’s father: I think she is.
Me: (trying to change the subject) Ma’am your food should be up any –
Woman: Are you going to tell me it hasn’t been thirty minutes?
Woman's father: Of course she is.
Me: Ma'am, I have five other tables, including a party of sev-
Woman: I don't know what you were doing, but it shouldn't take you thirty minutes.
Me: Ma’am, I apologize if it seemed like I was gone -
Woman: It was thirty minutes.
Me: I apologize. Can I bring you -
Woman: Are you going to continue telling me it hasn’t been thirty minutes?
Me: Are you going to continue to be rude to me?

Yep.

There it was.

She said, “Excuse me?!” And I walked away before I said something really stupid. Or threw lightning at her. She turned around and grabbed the manager who was still at the table beside them.

In the kitchen, I checked their ticket time. It had been seventeen minutes since I put it in.

When the manager came back, I apologized to him and asked told him I understood he was probably going to send me home.

“Hell no,” he said. “I heard everything. She was being a bitch.”

I calmed myself down, checked on my smoking tables, and came back to the window, where the three top’s food had just come up. I got it ready and ran it out to them.

And I apologized. I didn’t say I was sorry (because I wasn’t), but that I apologized. I asked them if they needed anything else. Perhaps some refills (because for the third time in twenty minutes they had sucked down twenty ounces of liquid). Then I dropped off their check. Showing the time they ordered.

I brought back refills, asked them how everything was, and apologized again. The woman said thank you and for the rest of their meal, they were all extremely polite.

At the end of their meal, I brought them to go boxes and welcomed them to join us again.

The manager said he would back me up if they decided to complain, but they tipped me eighteen percent. So I don't think they will.

Still, I felt bad about it all night. I mean, she was wrong, but I never lose my cool with a guest. And I have had some awful guests. I didn’t understand why I reacted that way. The rest of my tables were doing fine. I wasn’t in the weeds. I was having a pretty good night. I wasn’t anywhere near the end of my rope or the last straw or whatever.

I just suddenly couldn’t take this woman being so incredibly demeaning.