Return to Sender: Mail-Order Bride(zilla)

Holy Hell!!!

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/

Hold Please!

Don't you just hate that?  You call a company in hopes of talking to a real, genuine, in-the-flesh kind of person. Not this scummy, monotonous bodiless voice that tells you to pick either ONE for English or TWO for Espagnol. 



All the while, you're sitting there going "Shit! I said OPERATOR! REP-RE-SENT-A-TIVE!! NO, I mean YES." And then even after all of that, you get to listen to the worst selection of crap music that drones on in the background while you have your phone pressed to your ear for ten minutes. That obnoxious waiting room designed within the confines of your phone is like a little twilight zone that you became prisoner to.

THAT'S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE.



That, my friends, is called Bullshit and I'm sure you've all been there a few times before. It's an actual place. Somewhere hidden in the thickets and through the depths of hell, there is a cozy little nook and it goes by the exact name: Bullshit.

I walk up to greet a table this afternoon. The woman is on her phone. Okay, cool. Sorry for interrupting, I'll come back in a few. It goes on.

Fifteen minutes later, she puts the phone down, so I re-approach the table, and offer drinks.

"Yeah, I'd love a drink, what kind of hot teas do you have?"
"Well," I began...already annoyed, "We have a few of the Stash and Tazo Brands..."

Her phone goes off. Of course, she pounces like a cat on a rat. As if it were the last existing box of Twinkies on the shelf after the cease of production.

"Oh I knew you lost your signal. What I was saying was...."

Bitch please.


What I was saying was, we have A, B, and C, and if you're not really thirsty then that's great. Saves me a trip. While you're talking I can either choose to walk away, and then have to babysit you to see when you put that device you have super-glued to your face back down while taking care of the tables I have that actually communicate with me

OR

I can wait it out. And let's be honest. Not one server enjoys standing there, while you give them the "Oh Just A Second" finger, because I'm the one left standing here overhearing your trivial conversation feeling like an asshole.  Nope. No thanks. Not your whipping boy.


The question: Should I stay, or should I go now?


GO of course. How hard was that?
So when you're left wondering, goodness where IS our server, maybe oh maybe you will just reflect back to the time that you left me standing here for five minutes at your table because you had something really important to tell me, like your order perhaps. Because as you know, I'm not a mind-reader. I do really need your input so I can properly order exactly what you would like. Instead, however, you chose to answer that thing you're constantly on all the time anyway. You know. Your phone?

And the funny thing here? I'M just your server.

Damn do I feel bad for your date!

Newsflash. I'm here to work. He's here for your company. We're not asking for much.

B.Y.O.M.(anners)

 

-LMPhoto Credit:
Hold Please- www.wallpaperweb.org
Poor Time Management Skills vs. Rudeness- www.2time-sys.com
Requiem for a Hernia- www.brainpile.wordpress.com

No Money, Mo' Problems

Just another day in paradise. Slow day at work...

Gretchen* called off sick today...again. She's got this mysterious morning sickness line of bullshit that she feeds all of us. Every morning she wakes up feeling queasy, and ralphs. No specialist knows what's wrong with her... I'd say piss on a stick and get it over with, because it's turning into "the boy who cried wolf"- no one believes the tall tale anymore. And perhaps the twenty cigarettes a day aren't helping her any...

Hamlet* and I held down the fort, although with the way lunches have been going lately, we didn't really need a third server to begin with.

Here's today's issue--

 

Harleen*, behind the bar, racked up sales of over $400 before the morning rush hit on carry-outs alone, but only made $2 from tips.



Do you typically tip on carry-out? What's the going rate?

As a customer, be aware that even though the server did not wait on you as a table, they did:

-Take the time to ring in your order correctly
This can range from, "I want a chicken shwarma pita wrap. No garlic sauce. Sub Tahini, extra on the side. No onions. Extra pickles. Toasted extra well." Really? All for a sandwich.
...To the very confusing orders, "Hi...I'm not sure what chicken dishes you have." Um, sir, we have eight. " Well, I just want a chicken dish. Not too garlic-y. And some kind of soup." Yes. I will put up with your indecisiveness, can you please hold?
-Take time away from other tables to package everything up.

It can be in the middle of a rush, and your server will have to step away from what they are doing to take the time to package everything correctly. We need to make sure you get all of the proper sides, sauces, and extras. If you order soup, or a dish with a sauce, we'll take an extra minute to saran wrap these containers to prevent any spills or leaks on your travel back.
Working at a Lebanese restaurant, we also serve raw juices and fruit smoothies--
for every drink made, five minutes that need to be spent on the dining floor are being displaced.

-Go through your order and double check
We've all been there. You run to Taco Bell, late night partly because nothing else was open and partly on bad judgement. You order a crunchwrap or whatever Dorito special they have going on and some cheesy fiesta potatoes. You get home, and not only did they forget all of your sauce, but you have someone else's order. There is NOTHING worse than that when you're starving, and now you're just pissed off, plain and simple.

We know how much of a hassle it can be for a customer to discover their order was not assembled properly. I do not want to be the one who screwed up your order. In order to assure that you leave happy, and do NOT return agitated, it is our job to ensure everything is correct.

I can understand most people's perspectives (yeah, I'll throw them a buck or two), but here's the kicker: There is no such thing as a carry-out fairy that tossed all the shit you wanted into a bag, and like magic, had it ready for you on time to pick up.

We servers only wish it was that easy.
A carry-out order can take more energy to put together than it does to wait on an entire table.
Your server is still exuding effort to guarantee your meal is enjoyable.
Just because you didn't physically see it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Unlike a food joint that specializes in food to-go, servers do not make a minimum wage for salary. So on top of their $2.65/hr wage, tip. What's the issue?
But really. At the end of the day, a $2 tip on a carry-out order for an office that totaled several hundred dollars is just tacky. And if you were that bastard, you should be ashamed.
I'd be tempted to pull out a line from the old movie, Angels with Dirty Faces:

-LM

Photo Credit:http://shamefultypos.com
Keep the change, you filthy animal: John Gushuehttp://johngushue.typepad.com

How to Kill an Appetite

Today was another non-work day. Thank God for those.
Honestly. Every once and a while, a good break can do miracles for rejuvenation.

I spent the morning relaxing- kicked my feet up, downed a cup of coffee. Figured it was time for breakfast, lunch, brunch- whatever you may- I was hungry and it was time to eat!

Nelly's* is a small, family-style diner in Royal Oak. Perfect for the days you know it's jam-packed at the more popular restaurants. Sure, there are no mimosas at Nelly's but it wasn't exactly noon either.

I sat down with a friend, and ordered up an omelette... Somewhere amidst the flurry of texting and the void of conversation, he intitiated a discussion about what MY life plan was...what my next step after college was. And by the way, what is my major? Yes, it is undoubtedly communication...and even my friends are dubious of my path in today's professional world with such an ambiguous concentration.

I spilled my passion, (in retrospect) sounding unsure of myself because hell...I could sense a drop of judgement in my listener.  Private Investigation?  How will I market?  How will I support myself? How can I ensure clientel? Frankly, they admitted, the job is a "niche"- defined to be a distinct segment of a market, something boutique...in other words, unreliable.



I did actually have a plan for how I would get to where I wanted to be...but now it just sounds futile. The seed of doubt has been planted and my well has been poisoned. Was this what I really wanted? Is the means to an end worth all the struggle?

I've always kept waitressing on the table as my stepping stone. My financial foundation for a time while my schedule is constantly changing with odd course schedules.

I looked at our waitress-- a few years older than I, stout, and very Plain Jane.
She probably has a child or two at home.
Am I doomed to the vicious cycle of waitressing that she is trapped in?
This blackhole, a vortex we refer to as waitressing, drowns more people than it allows to keep afloat.  The only person who can save you is you.



It's hard to have goals or dreams when others step on them.
It's hard to believe in yourself when no one else does.
Of course, that wasn't my only route I was thinking of going with my major.
I do have another plan... but why share it now? I felt ridiculous.

I know my friend was only being honest...brutally honest, which isn't what I always want to hear. Albeit harsh, it may be the best advice for me....something I should take the time to consider. The intention at hand was to see where I would be in five, ten, twenty years down the road. The significance was that I do succeed.

But hell, if we all knew where we intended to be, we would be there already-- not stuck in some unnecessary limbo of taking orders on the daily like myself. This is life, and I happen to take it one day at a time and just be thankful that I have tomorrow.

Whether that small window of dialogue took place out of curiousity, care or concern, it struck a chord inside me.  It hit home, when maybe I shouldn't have let it.

There are definitely times (like this time) when I wish life was much more black and white.
Right now, I'm caught up in a whole slew of gray.
Time will only tell if I take the infamously beaten path...or choose the path less traveled by.
 

Although literally quite filling, that diner meal left me feeling more empty than before.

-LM


Photo Credit:
"Hopeless" by Curtains on Spirit www.glogster.com

"Trapped" by http://raido-ehwaz.deviantart.com

www.youreatopia.com

Turning the Tables...

 

Every so often I like a glass (or two) of wine.
On the rare occasion, I might light up a cigar with the guys.
Every once in a blue moon- yes- I actually prefer to be waited on versus waiting.

I could talk about fine dining, bottle service and hors d'oeuvres all day long--  half-shell oysters on ice, and a thick, juicy filet cooked to the perfect degree of rare that I absolutely love.

                                              

But who am I kidding? Those dinners are far and few in between for me. And yes, for the record, I am one of those assholes who takes pictures of my food.

As a server, I typically work most evenings. Sunday dinners are reserved for family. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'm trapped within the confines of Oakland University and usually forget about having to eat altogether.

If I'm going to be eating later on at night, and the golden arches haven't managed to sway me, there's always Leo's Coney Island.  What is this, you say?  Why, it's free entertainment of course! Probably not the healthiest, but hey, death is inevitable. You might as well live while you can.

                      

Four Reasons I Wouldn't Work at a Coney... Ever:

1. Horribly Rotten Hours
Sometimes I complain about my hours, and then I look at the girls who work here. I can definitely say that I am not at all jealous of the shifts they have to work.

2. Drunk Fucks
There is an undeniable witching hour at Leo's just after the bars close down. Leo's becomes
overrun by sloppy alcoholics who just got off the hot mess express and will more than likely be riding the struggle bus the following morning.

How can you tell someone is indeed a drunk fuck? Beligerence. Rudeness. Off-color
conversation topics. They might not be high, but they've got the munchies. Their level of
invinciblity goes up as they conjure these monstrous balls of steel, big enough to convince
themselves they can pick a fight with just about any other customer in the joint for any reason
imaginable.

I would like to thank "liquid courage" for the amazing brawls I've witnessed as a bystander.
And THIS guy...

                      

3. Shitty Tippers
First of all, the food at any given coney is dirt cheap. Any sober person would say, "hey, 20% on 5 is all of a dollar. Here ya go." The really awesome guests would drop down another buck or two. Unfortunately, that isn't the case at a dirt cheap place to eat which serves highly intoxicated guests. The average tip is whatever "change" is on the tab, or even better- the coins rolling around aimlessly in the bottom of a purse.

                       

                                                             Case in point.
I could never work at a coney. I would be shaking turds down for a proper tip, left and right.
4. (Other) Attitudinal Waitresses
Add all of these components together and what do you get? Yep. Exactly who I want handling
my food. The only smiles I've seen on the girls at that establishment is when they're punching out
for the night.


Speaking of attitudinal waitresses, a manager had given me the personal cell number of the owner to relay an experience with Pia* who had waited on me. Boy, she was a treat. He wanted her fired.

As weird as it sounds, for sardonic as I can be, I'm not naturally an ill-wisher-- unless you're a certain ex-boyfriend or two of mine, then the story is different.

It's a pretty universal statement- Do unto others as you would want done unto you.

-LM