The Restaurant Biz

Oooookay. Dearest last woman I served today. I know you'll probably never read this. Alot of people will never read this. But on the off chance that someday your daughter finds this blog online and says, "Hey mom, this sounds like you!" It is. Never in my life did I think that one bitchy woman could affect my mood so much. Now, when I say bitchy, I say it with the understanding that there is no word in any language that can possibly describe just what a grade-A piece of garbage this old hag was. People, if you're having a terrible day then please just stay the hell away from restaurants where people are required to have more contact with you than, "would you like fries with that?" Seriously. This lady (and I use the term loosely) comes in and orders a turkey sandwich with a fried appetizer. Her daughter wants a fish dish. Now I don't know if you've ever fried anything or tried to grill fish, but it takes a minute. Not an eternity, but if you don't want to get sick and you don't want the middle of your zucchini to be cold then you get to chill there with your drink and be patient for a bit. Five minutes passes, and apparently this hag is living in an alternate universe where five minutes is enough to make that last ugly curly hair turn gray with frustration. My picture is on my profile, so tell me; do I look like a wizard? Do I give the impression that I can twinkle my eyes and make your shit magically appear? The correct answer here would be no. I'm just a guy who puts in your order and brings it out when it's ready. This bitch, though, had the grand mall freak out of all freak outs. She gets a manager and starts yelling (to the extreme discomfort of the tables around her) about how she's been here three times and on every visit she vows never to come back because the service is so slow. Darlin, if you've had your expectations dashed that many times then please, please stop coming back. NOBODY is going to miss you. You are the most obnoxious, most evil, just.... Gah. You're a bitch that makes all the other bitches step back and say, "damn." It's time to dust the cobwebs off your ancient self and get laid. Seriously. And to top it off, managers are supposed to comp meals when stupid pieces of shit are unsatisfied, so congrats you get your slow ass meal for free. Hope it tastes FABULOUS. So I get all of her food out to her table. Everything is made perfectly. Her drink never gets below a quarter of a glass. True I'm not hanging out and chatting up a storm to keep you entertained, but pretty damn good service considering I'm more pissed off at you than I've ever been at anyone I'm relying on for a tip. She finishes her meal and what happens? SHE SITS AND TALKS IT UP FOR ANOTHER FIFTEEN MINUTES. You're not even in a hurry?!? You came into a sit down full service restaurant and screamed up a scene over fish taking ten minutes and you don't even have somewhere to be? FFFFUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKK YOU! (While I know you can't see it, I'm flipping you off with both hand and dancing on a spot I'm imagining is your grave.) This all falls back into the whole "why can't you just be considerate" frame of mind. If you can't be nice to people, then don't force people to deal with you. Oh by the way, your daughter looked absolutely mortified throughout the whole ordeal. Here's the clincher... She didn't leave a tip. I don't know if anyone realizes this anymore, but servers in Utah make $2.13 an hour. Taxes take, are you ready? ALL OF IT. My paycheck depends completely on tips. What I walk with at the end of the day is all I get. I realize that you're not happy with the speed of our service, but did I miss something? Did I not do my job to the best of my ability? Did I not greet you with a smile and go through the menu with your daughter when she couldn't decide what she wanted? Did I personally offend you on some deep level? No, yes, yes, and no. When you leave a tip, you're not leaving it for the cooks who may or may not have taken their sweet time making your food. (They didn't.) Woman, this may seem rash, but I sincerely hope you get bitten by a rabid dog so some doctor somewhere can have the sweet pleasure of informing you that you'll never piss in anyone's cheerios ever again because the lockjaw has permanently sealed your fat ungreatfull mouth.
I feel better now.