Classic Waitressing: XLI: Father’s Day And Terrible Karma

This Father’s Day, I told a customer my dad was dead. This may be offensive to some, so read on with caution.

The first restaurant I ever worked at told us on Father’s Day to not say “Happy Father’s Day!” to the customers. Our manager: “You don’t know their situation. Their dad could be dead, he could have been an awful person, he could have been absent, etc. These people are coming out for a meal on a special day and many of them will be with someone who looks like he could be a father, but you just don’t know. Give them great service with a smile, the way you usually do, and that’s it.”

I really took this to heart. It’s no one’s business what I do, or do not do, on Father’s Day, and it’s no one’s business if I have a “happy” one.

Cut to last night.

I take the drink order on Table 2. “What’s your name?” the older man asks. He’s with a younger man who could be his son—I don’t know! I didn’t ask!

“Eloise.”

“And have you had a chance to celebrate Father’s Day, Eloise?” he leans forward in eager anticipation of my response. Already the warning bells are going off in my head.

“No, not yet.” I shrug to indicate this is not a big deal.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Well, me neither. My father’s been dead for a while. Where’s your father? Will you get a chance to celebrate with him later?”

“My father’s dead, too.” In a split second I have decided to teach this well-meaning gentleman a lesson on behalf of everyone who doesn’t have a great relationship with their dad, or whose dad was a terrible person, or whose dad is actually deceased. The words are out of my mouth before I can reconsider. I flush with shame because part of me cannot believe I actually said it and part of me is stubborn and wayyy pissed off at this nosy customer.

His face falls a little. “Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. You’re just so young, I didn’t think…Well, hopefully you have great memories with him.” He smiles encouragingly.

Really dude? It wasn’t bad enough you had to remind me of my dead father, but now you’re trying to get me to recall all the wonderful memories I have with him? What if the memories are not so great? Would you get up and walk out of the restaurant if I told you my father raped and beat me?* Because some fathers do that and it would be really shitty if you were the guy making your waitress have to confront all that while she’s forced to interact with you because that’s how she makes money to support herself. Dick.

“Mmm…sure,” I mumble and run away to put in the drink order.

*My dad is not dead, nor has he ever raped or beat me. I just…can’t deal with people and their tactlessness sometimes.

Waitressing: CXX: All The Small Things

I spend a lot of time at work yelling in my head at customers.

Example: last night a table, within two minutes of being seated motioned me over.

“We’re ready to order,” said the man.

“Great,” I said.

“Do you have burgers?”

HOW CAN YOU BE READY TO ORDER IF YOU HAVEN’T EVEN LOOKED AT THE MENU? LITERALLY ALL WE HAVE ARE BURGERS.

“I’d like a burger.”

THAT’S NOT A COMPLETE ORDER! HOW DO YOU WANT IT COOKED? DO YOU WANT CHEESE?”

“How would you like it cooked?”

“Medium.”

“Would you like cheese?”

“Mmmm…mozzarella.”

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU PICKED THE ONE CHEESE WE DO NOT HAVE. YOU ARE HITTING IT OUT OF THE PARK.

“We have cheddar, American, Swiss, or blue.”

“Mmmm…cheddar. Does it come with fries?”

OF COURSE IT COMES WITH FRIES. IT SAYS SO RIGHT THERE ON THE MENU YOU DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO LOOK AT. WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT?

“I want to kill myself” is one of those turns-of-phrases that’s humorous when used to emphasize something awful…until it’s not funny anymore.

That’s where I’m at right now.

I think, “I want to stab my eye out with a rusty spoon,” is an okay substitute—after all, the likelihood of that happening, well, knock on wood.

Any suggestions?

Classic Waitressing: XXXI: Dreams

Tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

Fall back asleep and dream about having no arms and a full section.

Wake up.

Cry yourself back to sleep.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Classic Waitressing: XXX: The Elderly

As soon as people pass the age of 65, their communication and etiquette skills regress.

I’ve noticed it with my dad, who will often order in restaurants by saying, “Gimme _________.”

And I see it all the time when I waitress. I serve mostly elderly people because Mama’s isn’t young or hip or anything like that, and these people with their myopic vision, their voices that sink back into their throats so I have to lean in close to hear the whispered, “Burger, rare, lettuce and sauteed mushrooms,” along with flecks of Poligrip-scented saliva and death that spew from their wrinkled mouths, who refuse to read the menu and make me recite what kind of cheeses we have, what beers are on tap, the variety of salads, our selection of soups, have lost their social graces along with their mental capacity.

Last night, three older women walked in. I greeted them at the door, “Hello ladies, how are you this evening? Three for dinner?”

“Yes,” they chorused.

“Well, I can offer you a lovely seat by the fire—” And here I was interrupted by one of the women silently pointing over my shoulder at some obscure location behind me.

“Oh, ahhh, you don’t want to sit by the fire? Where would you like—” Again, the long finger jabbed at the air. At this point I was messing with them; I knew where they wanted to sit, but on principle I refuse to respond to fingers. When people point to something on the menu, I play dumb and act like I have no clue what they’re referencing. “The Roquefort salad?” I say, when I can tell that their digit is more in the vicinity of the hangar steak.

Going into a restaurant is entering into a social contract in all kinds of ways. You expect good service, I expect an appropriate tip for the work I do. You expect to order food, I expect that you will articulate what you would like to eat instead of using your hands to explain. I don’t know sign language. I expect that, if you’ve been sitting at the table for 10 minutes because you needed more time to decide, when I finally come to take your order, you will be able to vocalize what kind of food you want instead of staring at me blankly and asking what sides come with the salmon. THE SAME FUCKING SIDES THAT ARE WRITTEN IN THE MENU.

This kind of behavior is prevalent in all age demographics, but it is particularly common among the elderly. I get that if you’ve lived a long, materialistic, and empty life you might lean towards bitterness, but for fuck’s sake, don’t take it out on the waitress. AND DON’T POINT.

Classic Waitressing: XVIII

Seriously, the quickest way to get on my shit list is if you take something off my precisely balanced tray. You are not helping me. You are not being ‘cute.’ You’re being an impatient asshole and if the entire thing becomes suddenly weighted far more on one side then the other, well, who knows, I may just drop the rest of the contents all over you. But that wouldn’t be my fault, it would be yours you sick fuck. Honestly, who looks at a tray being carried, one-handed, and is like, “Oh, the best idea is for me to take as many full glasses of liquid off that thing without first letting the waitress know what I’m doing”?

Classic Waitressing: XXII

echolalia  (ˌɛkəʊˈleɪlɪə)

— n

psychiatry  the tendency to repeat mechanically words just spoken by another person: can occur in cases of brain damage, mental retardation, and schizophrenia

[From New Latin, from echo  + Greek lalia  talk, chatter, from lalein  to chatter]

Real world example,

Customer: I’d like my water with lemon and no ice.

Me: Water with lemon and no ice.

Classic Waitressing: IX

To the Lady who ordered salmon, well done, and then complained that it was dry: DON’T ORDER WELL DONE SALMON.

That is all.

Classic Waitressing: VII: The Olds

Classic Waitressing: V

Classic Waitressing: II