I've had some pretty irritable people that I've waited on... Ornary S.O.B.'s.
This lady by far takes the cake.
It was on a day I of all people was already agitated. On shift, there's always a "through" server, or a closing server. During lunch, this means someone has to stay and take tables until 4:30 when the evening servers arrive to relieve them of their duties.
Saturday, I had arrived first and did a chunk of the sidework solo, but also had Paris* and Regina* needing to leave first. I get it. We all have those days.
Of course, the last table to come in was a couple...
One of those couples you look at, scratch your head and wonder to yourself...What on Earth's name is going on? Ashton?! Where are you? It left me drawing a blank, trying to do the math on how these two ever met.
He: A very tall, statuesque man with defined features. Thick rimmed, black glasses. A heavy overcoat. Some kind of professional.
Her: A tacky (yet refined) Asian woman with her hair pinned back with a butterfly clip I may have used back in the fifth grade. A ring on every finger, to complement the largest diamond I have ever seen that weighed like a sack of potatoes on her stubby little hand.
The interrogation ensued-
"What juices do you have."
This is the one question servers here outright dread. I've gotta go back, find the materials, hope that they're fresh, cut them to fit the juicer, grind them all up, tidy up the machine. It's not as easy as hitting the Coke button on the beverage gun, then again it's a tad bit more healthy.
"Carrot, apple, beet, cucumber, parsley, spinach, pineapple..."
"Which one is healthiest. Which do people order most."
"It really depends on what your preference is." How the hell am I supposed to know what you do and do not like. I am not wasting five minutes to grind you something you're just going to have me re-make."Well I don't know then. I'll have Carrot and Apple."
Her husband orders the same, but he prefers more fruity...at which point she nearly leaps across the table to tell him it was she who ordered first, and he will be drinking it the way she liked it- more carrot than apple.
Really? All this fuss over a damn juice. It's not rocket science. I ground another apple to top his off.
Questions on Taboulee. Questions on ingredients. Questions on portabella-stuffed mushrooms. Questions on modifying the mushrooms.,more questions on the taboulee. A demand to make her taboulee special. The necessity that it come right away while her husband makes his mind up. Questions on what does and does not have onion or garlic....
Stop. Please stop while you're ahead.
You're eating at a mediterranean...Middle-Eastern...a Lebanese restaurant, and you're going to ask me with a straight face what exactly does NOT have onion and garlic in it?
Soup. You, my dear, can have soup.
Which, yes, she does order after her husband orders and receives his...because it is now very rude of me (as she let me know) to let him eat soup without her having some as well.
Doing my duties, I stop by the table to ask how the appetizer is. She snaps back in reponse, "I got food in my mouth! I cannot talk!" Well. Here's a thought: Chew. Swallow. Even with broken English, I can hear you perfectly clear right this very second.
Now let me be perfectly clear. I am NOT perfect.
I am probably the furthest thing from it- I'm just functioning in this crazy thing we call a world.
It slipped my mind to bring by the olives and turnips to the table.
Bridezilla informed Paris it was very offensive to her that I (the good-for-nothing "whatever she's called") did such a thing, and she is VERY upset.
Warning: Damsel in Distress. I brought the olives (which, if you knew what kind of container they came out of, you wouldn't eat them)
Should have told her to choke on it.
Refrained. Held my tongue instead...
Which is a smart choice, if you ask me. Someone once told me, there is a time and place for everything, and THAT was neither. The wise man said what? Nothing.
Her husband decides at this point, he would like the pesto pizza. She informs me, vehemently, that there absolutely must not be any onion or garlic on the pizza.
Since I know this wasn't an allergy, it "slipped my mind" to add that onto the ticket.
Remember how I said not to piss off your server? Just a small reason why. If I said, I almost wished she did have an allergy to garlic, would that make me a bad person? Maybe? The pesto sauce we use on the pizza is loaded with garlic.
Nine of the longest minutes of my life ticked by as I waited for the pizza to bake in our oven.
Perfect. I marched the pizza over to Your Highness's table. Upon placing it in-between the lovebirds, the whining ensued.
"That is burnt! Look at those two pieces! Take it back! I will not eat this!"
It's as if I'm hearing nails on a chalkboard. That terrible screeching that sends the most uncomfortable chill down your spine and has the side-effect of a brain freeze. Just rattles you.
Thank God for her husband, who happens to prefer his pieces on the "well-done" side, because I am not about to cater to this woman any more that I possibly have to. I smile, sickly sweet and tell her to enjoy- especially since I know how much she adores garlic.
The rest of the meal she ignores me. Refuses to give me direct orders, because now I am beneath her...it's a psychological game. But you know what? I prefer it that way; This particular silence is indeed golden. I am merely but a pawn, refusing to be taken by the queen.
I stop by one last time to clear some of the empty plates overcrowding the table...and again am chastized for doing my job. "NO," the wife snarled. Starteld, I jumped back. "I am still eating. Do not touch those." She had one bite left...which was already in her hands, up off her plate which I was not going to remove anyway.
Even upon dropping off the bill, I left her dirty plates in front of her- too tired and fed up to continue trying or exuding any further effort. Figures, he paid with a Black Card.
Do men enjoy being walked on, and over like that? Do they actually enjoy being treated like a child that has misbehaved- in public?! Do men find it attractive when their spouse throws infantile tantrums? Do they like the feeling of being bossed around-- not having any balls, or the manhood to put their fist down and speak the fuck up? There was nothing about that relationship that screamed "equal" or "partner". It was, "I say jump and you better ask me 'how damn high?'"
I felt bad for the husband...and I didn't. Her behavior was embarassing. Yes, her manners were atrocious, and perhaps its not in her custom to be gracious to a server-- but he did not correct her. Who did she think she was?
It's one thing when you're picky, but do NOT come in and demand respect when you do not have the common courtesy to dole some out as well. I will not be overly obsequious to anyone with that attitude.
And for the record--
Not saying she really was indeed a Mail Order bride...but if that's the case, I'd send her back.
Let's hope he kept the receipt.
-LM
Photo Credit:
Punk'd- www.stagevu.com
Angry Waitress- www.quickmeme.com
Picture from Waiting- www.servernightmares.com
Rules of Dining Etiquette- www.businessinsider.com
"Garlic: 5 Reasons Why You Need it in Your Diet"
www.thehealthyapron.com
Webster University Chess- www.websterchess.blogspot.com
"Far Reaching Powers"- http://www.textbook12.com/girls/far-reaching-powers/
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