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Me: This was supposed to be my day off. I'm missing my best friend's birthday party.
PPL: Pulled Pork Lady, grandmother to Sybil's well-behaved kids.
Sybil: Miss Multiple Personality
Kids and husband: Also there, but don't say much.
Me: (Taking order.) And for you, ma'am?
PPL: Does the dieter's special come with soup?
Me: No, it comes with a quarter pound of your choice of meat and the all-you-can-eat salad bar.
PPL: (Affronted) The soup comes with the salad bar.
Me: It's actually considered a separate menu item.
PPL: (Stares)
Me: ...We don't even keep it on the salad bar, it's in the kitchen. It's only included if you order the soup and salad, not the dieter's special.
PPL: (Finally gets it, but is clearly disappointed.) Okay, I'll have a sliced pork dieter's plate.
(Sybil, who is being sweet as honey at this point, and her husband order salad with meals. I bring them the plates, then I get triple sat.)
PPL: (Sits there alone while everyone at her table is at the salad bar. She has no salad plate.)
Me: Did I short you on a salad plate?
PPL: (Looks lost) I don't know.
Me: Okay, I'll bring you another one.
(Realize that Sybil and her husband have taken her salad plate to make the kids a salad that they didn't pay for. I only let it go because they only took a few olives, cheese cubes, and some diced ham. Time passes, worlds collide, etc....)
Me: (Handing out food.) Okay, sliced pork dieter's plate. (Leans over high chair. Sybil helps out by taking the plate to hand it to PPL. Then, IT happens...)
PPL: This is pulled pork! I asked for sliced!
Sybil: She didn't order this.
Me: (Plate still hovering in mid-air, not low enough for anyone seated to get a good look.) It's a little crumbly, but it's definitely sliced pork. (I've been working here long enough to know the damn difference.) I can replace it if you like (smiles).
PPL: It's pulled pork. I didn't want pulled pork.
Sybil: This isn't right. She wanted sliced, not pulled.
Me: Okay, no problem. I'll replace it. (Still handing out plates. Sybil, irritated for whatever reason -- the meat thing must have really pissed her off -- actually SNATCHES her plate out of my hand. A cup of beans precariously balanced on the edge of the plate threatens to fall and splatter all over everyone at the table, including the baby and kid.) Oh, be careful! Those beans are about to fall.
Sybil: (Snaps) I'm well aware of that!!!
Me: o_0 Okay.
Besides the inevitable gofer-ing on steroids they subjected me to at an incredibly busy time of night, everything else was fine. PPL was especially needy, but no one at that table was rude to me again. It was bizarre. And though they left me one hell of a mess on the floor, I got a decent tip. Weird.
But I've saved the best for last.
Me: Just trying to be helpful, bitch.
NL: Nice lady who really shouldn't associate with people like this.
CB: Crazy bitch with what looks like a botched collagen lip-injection job. It was like Hatchet-Face or Phantom of the Opera, I swear to God. Kill me if I'm lyin'.
Kids: Varied in age. Nothing but witnesses to this.
M: Their server.
NL: Excuse me, could you please give me a box and my check? I don't know where my waitress is.
Me: Oh, sure! (Hands her a box.) I'll track her down and get your check for you, okay?
NL: Thank you.
(I get the ticket, but afterwards am a little uncertain because the server on the ticket isn't the one in that section.)
CB: (In mocking tone) Oh, HERE she is, finally! I'm glad you could finally make it.
Me: o_0 Oooh-kay. Was your server M? (Describes the server, who BTW, is built like a linebacker.)
NL: Um, I'm not really sure.
CB: You can tell her for us that she sucks and she was slow.
Me: ...Oooo-kay. I just want to make sure I give you the right ticket. Did you have a child's chicken plate, a ---
CB: (In my face) So where was she, huh???
Me: Um, she had to step outside for a minute.
CB: Ha! What did I tell you??? What did I TELL you?!!?!?!?
Me: Um, so did you also have a beef plate --
NL: Yes, that's ours. Thank you.
Me: (Smiles, understanding the NL just wants to get out of there before her psycho friend makes more of a scene.) Okay, here you go.
CB: (In the most mocking, sickly sweet tone imaginable) Ohhhh, here you gooooo!
Me: o_o (Seethes at the personal attack)
CB: So she had to go outside for a minute, huh? Maybe she had to go to the bathroom, too. Huh? Maybe she had to go poopy, huh??? A little poopy? (laughs maniacally, does the same mocking tone every time she says the word "poopy.")
Me: (Actually spoiling for a blow-out now, which is very unlike me, but I've had my fill of assholes and EBs this week. I'm fucking human too, people. So I tell her in my snottiest, kiss-my-ass tone:) I REALLY couldn't tell you.
CB: (Laughs again.) Maybe a little poopy. huh??? Some poo-poo??? (More crazy laughter.)
Me: Right.
They walk down the aisle. M. comes in and plops her ass into a booth as they pass her. CB looks at her, but doesn't say anything -- and SHE'S the one who pissed her off! I guess I was an easier target. They left without a single comment more. I later find out that she came in crying and her husband was mad at her for something.
I told this story to my sister, who worked at Friday's with another girl who was also there while I was venting. The girl actually knew who I was talking about! Seems she came in one time with her husband and special ordered everything on her plate. They don't do half the substitutions and special requests she demanded, but they made an exception this time.
She wanted a blackened steak, but wanted it medium rare. Very difficult feat of elemental manipulation, but she demanded nothing less. It came out -- not blackened enough. They make her another one. It's too well-done. The third one comes out perfect by some miracle, but to her it's still wrong. The server tells her she can take all the other steaks with her, but that she's not making the cooks do her special order for her a fourth time. The lady starts crying and whines "I only wanted my food how I wanted it!"
She's obviously unbalanced. All I know is that I'll be refusing her service if she's ever seated in my section. I'm tired of taking crap. It's BBQ, people -- not real life. Get. Over. It.Current Mood:  accomplished Current Music: Cartoons in the next room |
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Yesterday a table of 60 (!) kids on a field trip with their Christian high school came in unexpectedly. There were chaperones sitting with most of them. The "coordinator" was bitching about us not being able to accomodate them all at once, and being very vocal about her irritation until we finally got the last of them sat. Whatever.
I had 4 tables worth of them, 19 total. Most of the kids were wonderful. One table of four, however, were not. Keep in mind that though there wasn't a chaperone at their table, there were some behind their loud asses (also my table) and to the right of them (co-worker's tables.)
Me: I'm a 38D. Feel free to ogle my breasts -- I like it!
TF: Teenage Fuckwit.
Others: Fuckwit's friends.
Me: (Picks up dishes.)
TF: (After sending me after countless idiotic requests.) Hey, I just wanted to tell you something.
Me: Yeah? (Thinking it's yet another one of his stupid little jokes.)
Others: (Heads down on the table, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.)
TF: Yeah. (Stares at my breasts for a moment, then looks me in the eye and says:) We REALLY enjoyed our RACK. (They didn't order a rack of ribs, BTW.)
Me: (Seethes.) Oh, really.
TF: Yeah. It was really BIG and JUICY.
Others: Shaking harder.
Me: That's great. Asshole
TF: It was the best RACK I've ever seen. We all want to just HUG you for bringing it to us. It was a great RACK.
Others: Openly laughing now. I suppose treating women like this is funny.
Me: Hmm... Well, I'm glad you liked it.
TF: We loved it.
Me: Well, I have to hand it to you. You have a lot of nerve being able to look me in the eye and tell me that with a straight face.
TF: Smiles.
Others: Laughing louder because he's busted.
They stiffed me, of course. The other tables left $7.00 and more, but they left nothing after all that. And here I thought it was customary to pay people you treat like whores. I was shaking with anger; none of the chaperones said a single word. Not one. Not even the man sitting directly behind him that I was also waiting on. And of course I now wish I'd been less subtle about telling him what a fucking little prick he was being.Current Mood:  angry |
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Short and sweet: I had every asshole in St. Augustine tonight. Period.
I usually don't have much cause for complaint where I work as far as the customers themselves go. We have a lot of really cool people come in, lots of regulars and all that. Tonight? Not so much. First five tables left me $2.00 and less. Can't fathom why. Then this...
(Setting the scene: 6 older members of a church wearing badges stating they are on a mission to spread the Word.)
Me: How may I serve you?
FF: Fry Fanatic
FFW: More ice, please! My husband needs it to warm his heart.
Me: (setting plates down.)
Everyone: "My fries are cold." "Mine are too!" "Can we get some hot fries?" "These are awful. Can we get new fries?"
Me: Oh, sure! I'm so sorry, let me get some new ones for you.
Others: (continue to grumble about fries, regardless of the fact I said I would replace them.)
Me: Okay, I'll be right back with thos--
FF: Alright now, where's my slaw? Doesn't slaw come with this? What's going on?!
Me: (Still setting plates down) Actually, no. It comes with only one side and you have fries.
FF: (Haughtily) Well...how much IS the slaw?
Me: It's $1.99
FF: Humph! Well, that's not WORTH it at all. Are we going to get some hot fries?! These are cold.
Me: o_O (Already starting to shake with anger, smile getting wider as a sort of futile defense.) Absolutely! I'm going to get those right now. Like I said I would three times already, asshat.
FFW: Can I have another cup of ice?
::Gets new fries::
FF: (Bitches about fries to the point of obsession, but since his fries are now fresh out of the grease, all he can do is make smug "jokes" about cold fries every. Time. I. Go. Back. All are very condescending, as though I'd given him the lukewarm fries as some sort of maniacal revenge scheme or something equally sinister.)
Me: (Hands out checks.) Okay, have a great night!
FFW: Oh! Can I get some more ice for my drink? (She had sent me back 3 times for full cups of ice already.)
Me: Sure. That tea really melts the ice down.
FF: (snorts) Yeah, hot tea, cold fries.
Me: (Laughs so I don't strangle him for the 8th smug comment about effing french fries. Get over yourself already!)
(Of course that couple stiffed me. She ran me like crazy for ice and other stuff and he was an asshole. Why do people bearing some sort of sign that they're Christian act like jerks? I've never understood it. Talk about hypocrites.)
Will skip over the next few tables who 1) sniped about petty things 2) twisted around in their seats impatiently to look for their food and responded with a haughty "I certainly HOPE so!" when I told them their food would be out and 3) the one table who had nothing better to complain about than make it known he was offended by the hairdo one of our black cooks was sporting. (We have an open kitchen, but he would have had to really be staring to see it. BTW, the cook was having a bad hair day and put it up in two poofs so it would be sanitary. Nothing overtly crazy or anything. I'm thinking the real offense was that he was black, period.)
Skip to the deaf table. I wish to God I knew sign language because this was really hard to deal with -- "language" barrier and all...
Three deaf people come in and order everything a la carte. Cool.
Me: Order up!
EB: This is a JOKE!!! (Everything they "say" is written on paper.)
EB's Man: I'm providing the comic relief for the evening!
Me: (Drops off check and attempts to bid them a good night.)
A few minutes pass...
EB: (Signing furiously. I spot a stack of literally 20 or more menus on the table where they've gone and taken them from the podium.) My hot dog should have been $3.79 and you charged $5.29
Me: Oh, that's for the kid's hot dog. The adult hot dog is $5.29. You have to be 13 and under to get things off the kid's menu.
EB: I don't understand you!
Me: (Attempts to explain it, finally succeed when I write it down.)
EB's Man: She's 13 (grins)
Me: (Laughs. He's been cracking jokes on paper the whole time he's been there.:-D)
EB: I KNOW that. I wanted the kid's hot dog. I just wanted something light.
Me: I'm sorry, but you have to be 13 or under. (And you never mentioned anything about the kid's hot dog anyway.)
EB: (Getting very agitated now) $5.29 for a hot dog is a JOKE!!! (They also come with fries, but whatever. And it's a BIG hot dog, even if you do get the kid's.)
Me: (Five minutes of this. I'm ready to pay the extra buck fifty myself.) I'll go talk to my manager. (Comes back with new total.) Here you are, but we can't do this again. Only kids can order off the kid's menu, etc.
EB's Man: Next time we'll make her come dressed as a 13 year-old.
Me: Cracks up.
EB: Is Not Amused. (Takes her Bible and goes home. See what I mean?!)
WTF?! What is the problem with everyone tonight? And one more, but it was overheard asshatage:
Patty: Fabulous co-worker 'o mine!
Asshat: Redneck asshole.
AHG: His girlfriend.
(Asshat and co. standing at the door, waiting to be seated.)
Me: (Hands full) We'll be right with you!
AH: Grumbles incoherently.
Patty: Hi, how many?
AH: (Doesn't see her. Talking to GF) This is fucking ridiculous. We've been here, like, three minutes and no one has sat us. Like FIVE minutes... Three or five. ::grumbles some more::
AHG: (Joins in the fun.)
Patty: How many?
AH: (To girlfriend) How many we got?
AHG: I don't know!!
Patty: o_O
AH: I guess we got six.
Jesus.
And then to top things off, my row buddy left without doing any of her sidework. Guess who had to pick up her slack?
Kill me now.Current Mood:  annoyed Current Music: My teeth grinding in anger |
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I almost forgot! Sunday I had a man get all pissy asking for the Sunday special. I tried to explain to him that since the old special is now a regular menu item (at the same $9.99 it's been for over a year now), it kind of negates the whole "special" concept. Of course I put it to him in terms that were more positive than that, but...
Me: My face hurts from smiling at you, asshole.
EB: Entitlement Bastard
EBW: Entitlement Bastard's Wife
(I'm really digging this Customers_suck format, so I'm stealing the idea. )
Me: Hi! How are ya'll doing tonight?
EB: What's your special?
Me: (not deterred from being friendly) Well, we really don't have one any--
EB: What do you mean?!
Me: ...We used to have AUCE chicken on Sundays only, but since it's now a regular menu item, you can get it every day now.
EBW: (Is silent, but working on looking appropriately pissed for her husband's sake.)
EB: (shaking his head in disgust) I JUST asked those girls up front if there was a special today and they said yes, that the chicken was on special.
Me: Well, the menu just recently changed. The chicken used to only be AUCE on Sundays, so...
EB: How much is it? Oh, $10.00! That's not a special. It used to be $6.99, not ten bucks.
Me: (Nods) I remember that, too. That was a few years back. (Five years ago, to be exact. It's gone up since then, just like everything else on the menu and in the universe, asshat.)
EB: Well, that's not a special. To me a special is $6.99. (What a lovely place the world would be if we could ALL make up prices for things out of thin air. Ah...!)
Me: (Pen still poised to take the order, now starting to droop in anticipation of the inevitable.)
EB: (Getting loud, clearly frustrated. To wife:) Well, do you even WANT to eat here now? We can go somewhere else.
Me: (How classy of you, mister. Puts pen away.)
EBW: It's up to you.
EB: (To me) We need a minute. I don't even know if we're going to stay around here.
Me: Okay, I'll check back! ::smiles, walks away::
EB: (to his wife as I'm walking away) I HATE it when they say one thing and then say another once you get to the table!!! Those girls told me there was a special...blah de frickety blah.
Needless to say, I was happy to see they left. The last thing I wanted was some disgruntled asshole bitching about everything from the food to the service every time my back was turned just because we weren't calling the AUCE an exclusively Sunday special anymore. $9.99 for all the chicken and sides you can hold is NOT a bad deal. Get over yourself. Why is it that it's always the seemingly well-off that raise this sort of fuss???
Buh-bye. Don't come back. |
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So the other night I get this young redneck couple in. She wants the all-you-can-eat salad bar and he talks about getting the AUCE pork plate. She tells him to go ahead and get it so she can have some of his pork. We're not supposed to allow sharing, but it was the end of a busy Friday night and I couldn't bring myself to care at this point. So I tell her that we aren't supposed to share at all so I can't give her an extra dinner plate, blah, blah, blah, but what I don't see won't hurt me. They thank me and I grab her salad plates.
A few minutes pass and I see them BOTH up at the salad bar. He piles a plate full of salad a mile high, drenches it in ranch, and sits down to eat it like he has the freakin' right to do it. NOTHING pisses me off more than this. He's obviously taking advantage of my good nature and endangering my job (we get random checks on out tickets to make sure no one's giving out free food. You're fired on the spot if even a drink is missing on the ticket) so that you can save $3.49.
I was pissed, but was treating the whole situation like a social experiment. I wanted to see exactly how this table was going to go and what sort of tip I would get. It was like a morbid curiosity. So instead of writing the extra salad bar down, I took advantage of having a cool manager working the shift (and thus unlikely to check behind my tickets) and let it go.
Short and sweet: I deliver the food. He goes to the bathroom. She flags me down and asks me to come back about two or three minutes after he comes back from the bathroom and ask them if they're ready to go. Bear in mind that he hasn't even started his AUCE dinner yet; if I ask them if they're ready to leave, I'll look like a massive bitch. Then she tells me it's because he's being a "dick" and she's ready to leave. So what choice do I have? He comes back and I ask him if he wants a box. He says yes. I hear him saying something to her about "making a scene, if that's what she really wants."
They leave. Her side of the table is neat and clean. His side has filthy, wadded up napkins piled up where he didn't want to wash his hands before eating. There's a half-eaten salad swimming in ranch on a plate, some of it spilled off onto the table. It appears Prince Charming needed a few remedial lessons in eating in public because the other half of his dressing-soaked salad is on the floor. The table is a disgusting mess. They're ouside, fighting in the parking lot. And guess what the best part is? Go on, guess!
No tip. And she's the one who paid -- after personally putting me through all their crap.
It turns out that she came back the next morning looking for her missing cell phone. She searched all over the parking lot and around the area where she sat. I know it sounds heartless of me to say, but ain't Karma a bitch?Current Mood:  exanimate |
| » Been thinking about Pizza Hut... |
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...and how much it sucked. I worked at two locations in Jacksonville, Florida. Both were on the west side of town, which should be named Redneckville. Even worse than here in good ol' St. Augustine. Anyway, policy hinges on the whole 100% customer satisfaction thing. It was my first waitressing job, and it was literally like being thrown to the wolves. You would not believe the crap people would come up with in order to get something for free. You want to talk about EBs? I'm not kidding when I tell you that more than half of the clientele was scamming for something.
Everyone complained. No one could understand why it took more than five minutes to get their food. (It's fucking pizza! Why isn't our order here yet?!) Then I had to explain in that server's placating tone that it takes at least 12 minutes for make time and cooking so that the dough doesn't come out raw. I think a little bit of my soul died back then. I mean, I was 18 and it's always been my nature to be a people pleaser. But what do you do when people are completely belligerant toward you for no other purpose than to get something for nothing?
Two years of this shit until I got out. It was the best thing I've ever done.
Random suckage I clearly remember there:
1) There was a group of bikers that came in on a Friday night. There were no tables to spare and they had to wait at the door for one. Finally one gets mad and gets in my face about being seated, though the whole of the dining can clearly be seen. He could SEE there were no tables. I was so weeded I couldn't see straight, but I smiled and explained that there are no tables, but we'd seat him as soon as possible. He smiled back in a nasty, mocking way and said "really..." in the same tone I used. I can't put it into words, but it was incredibly hateful. And the way he was standing over me and turning bright red, I was positive he was about to hit me. But then he pulled back and left with all his biker friends, all of them bitching about how we're all fucking stupid here and don't know what the hell we're doing, etc. Good riddance, asshole.
2) There was a black family that came in one night. It was five minutes until close after one hellacious night. They demanded that I thoroughly sweep the floor under and around their table before they sat, watching over my shoulder as I did the work. I took their order in the same friendly manner I always have -- I can't bring myself to be rude no matter what the circumstances. Put their order in. Now here's where I went wrong -- I forgot to bring them their drinks and they waited about five minutes. The man waved me down and reminded me. I apologized all over myself and brought them to the table immediately.
They were the only people in the restaurant. I was closing after a horribly busy night. They just made me clean the hell out of their corner booth before I could wait on them. I was a bit flustered from the attitude. So yes, I forgot the drinks. No one's perfect.
So their pizzas are peeking out of the oven. I go to pull them (at the PHs I worked at the servers were constantly cutting/boxing/taking carry-out orders. We handled tickets and phones, registers, dine-in cash outs and carry-out customers while also waiting tables, keeping up the salad bar and salad bar prep, maintaining the bathrooms, etc. Sometimes we even had to make the pizzas and do our own dishes. This isn't even including all the sidework.) and the man comes up to the manager at the counter and complains that I was extremely rude to him and his family, that I'm obviously a racist, and that he'll never come back here again. He just went on and on about my horrible attitude.
I'm 18 at the time. I've yet to have my spirit broken like most of us servers eventually will. This is extremely hurtful to me. Not only is the complaint about my attitude categorically untrue, but he's calling me a racist! I loathe racists! So, still being green, my eyes well up a little and I apologize for whatever he thought I said or did that was rude. The drink thing was an honest mistake. I also informed him that I am by no means a racist -- my fiancee's Puerto Rican! He didn't care. He said I was nasty to him and he wants free pizza. The manager gives it to him of course (they never denied anyone something for free. It was policy.) and he leaves without the pizzas that are now finished.
The whole incident broke my heart. Since those days I've developed a thicker skin. You can't let these asshole's words follow you home, you know? Still, they do, no matter how hard we try. People are dicks.
3) Sunday buffets. Oh, yes. A packed room full of holier-than-thou assholes trying to make you feel guilty about working on Sunday. The obvious question always escapes them -- who would serve your high and mighty ass if I didn't work today? They would corner you with that smug look on their face and ask, "So, where do you go to church? Are you saved?" in a tone that clearly implies they think you a) don't go to church at all, and b) are doomed to the fiery pits of hell. I think religion is a highly personal thing and your server shouldn't be harrassed ten times a shift about it. We had a server who would always go to the juke box and play that Creed song that shouts out the word "Goddamn" in the middle. It used to annoy me, but now I can see she was trying to get a little of her own back.
4) What was with Sundays anyway? The same people who come in during the week and chain smoke in the smoking section, drink until they're red in the face, then get up and play death metal on the juke box would come in with their massive church groups, turn their nose up when I asked if they wanted smoking or non (they invariably asked for non, of course) and proceeded to act like a snooty, bible-thumpin' asshole the whole time they were there. All in their Sunday best and putting on a show. I hated it. Then the whole group would run you like crazy with refills, special orders, napkins, more silverware, etc. and leave $3 for the 12 of them. It. Sucked.
I fucking HATED Sundays!
5) We were joking the whole time. I laughed at your cheesy jokes, you laughed at mine. The whole table (and I) was having a great time. So why is it that when you handed me a $100 bill for your check and I joked about keeping the change, you suddenly turned into a jerk and the rest of the table wouldn't speak to or look at me? Was I pushing the envelope even more than your sexist jokes were? Thanks for the $2 on a $50 check. I hope you enjoyed your appetizers (which I made), beers (which I kept filled), salad and pizza (which I prepped, cut, and delivered).
Jesus, people get weird about money.
6) Ma'am, I was not flirting with your husband. He was flirting with me. I was obviously uncomfortable and kept my attention as focused on you as possible. Your service was impeccable and the food was great. So why did you feel compelled to snatch that fiver off the table and leave me with no tip? To prove a point to your man who is obviously either an idiot or trying to get a rise out of you? That has nothing to do with me. First he makes me a victim of his attentions, which was uncomfortable to me, then you make me a victim of your bitchiness. I enjoyed waiting on you through all that weirdness and paying taxes on the food that you ate. No, really. No tip is necessary.
Pizza Hut can suck my ass. Thank God I'm out of there.
Mar. 15th, 2006 @ 11:33 pm
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| » Seating |
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FYI, it is not cool when I go to seat you and about midway you decide to stop and chat with someone you know who's already seated in the restaurant. I have continued on to your table, oblivious to the fact that you've stopped and have no clue where I now am. I don't have the time to stand here and wait for you two long-lost friends to finish playing catch up. It's rude of you to make me stand there waiting like a dumbass next to an empty table when I have a line out the door waiting to be seated and two tables I haven't been to yet.
I would leave you to figure it out for yourself like most of my co-workers would, but I don't particularly enjoy you wandering up to the wait station with that dazed look in your eyes, complaining to the other servers that the "hostess" left you behind and now you don't know where to sit.
The procedure is simple. I greet you and ask how many are in your party. You tell me, I consult the chart for availability, rotation, etc. and then I walk you to your table. This is not the time to chat with various people along the way, stop midway to the table (once again leaving me behind) to sit at some other table of your own choosing (fucking up the rotation, pissing the servers off), or make smartass remarks when I ask if you have a particular number in your party. I see that there are two people in front of me. You don't need to look over your shoulder in that snotty manner and tell me that you have 20 right behind you. Plenty of people have others joining them and I don't want to seat you at a table for 4 when you have 6 in your party. This inevitably leads to you sitting down like nothing is wrong, not comprehending that the small booth won't seat all of you until everyone arrives and there's no room. I don't want to deal with the pissy fallout of your stupidity, therefore I ask how many are in your party all the time. Answer the question. Get over it. That is all.
Mar. 15th, 2006 @ 08:27 pm
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| » Public Service Announcement |
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Dear trash-hoarding customer,
It is customary in many parts of the world to allow your server to carry your plates and trash away from the table periodically during the meal. You are not, in fact, "making it easier" on us by not giving up the garbage. You are not being kind in saving us the trip. For those of us who have no bussers at various times of the day, you're actually making more work for us after you leave. I'm already on the way back to the kitchen and could have multi-tasked, thus making life easier for me. I appreciate the thought, but no. Why do you want to sit among your own slop anyway? It baffles the mind.
One last note. Grubby, used napkins crumpled up on a plate with silverware lain across the top is the universal signal for your server to take the plate away. It is therefore confusing when you scowl at said server for taking the mess away and then yell at her/him that you weren't finished. You're going to eat the garlic bread crust and meat leavins' around the mound of krungus you've piled on top of your plate? Well, that's just fucking nasty. Please let me do you a favor and take it away. No one wants to watch you sift through your shit heap for crumbs, mmkay?
Yeah, I heard you talking shit about rude waitresses who take food away from their customers. Yes, I saw you take a few bucks off the table after your husband/wife walked up to pay the bill. Self-important people like you make the world turn to shit and die. So thanks, and have a great day. Fuckwit.
~Your Friendly Soda Machine on Legs
Mar. 15th, 2006 @ 10:40 am
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| » Betrayal |
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Accidentally wandered into a "customer service sucks these days" site and felt my blood pressure go up. All I can picture is a bunch of smug yuppies, who have never worked retail or waited on a person in their entire lives, bitching with abnormal glee about how poorly they were treated by the unwashed, uneducated dimwit working at So-and-So.
To them, I send out a very heartfelt "Fuck You."
But it's worse when it's one of our own, isn't it? At what point does a cashier decide it's okay to go somewhere on her day off and pull the same shit on another cashier, in a different business, and walk away without feeling an enormous emptiness in his or her gut where their soul used to be?
Case in point: my very dear friend, S. S is usually a pretty down girl. She's fun to hang with, though she has some personality quirks that would drive a saint to murder. She's a server in the same place I work at, and like me, she feels she's seen it all from the public. Yet almost every time we go somewhere to eat, she finds some ridiculous cause for complaint. The rest of us tell her to settle down, that she's making a big deal over nothing. This doesn't stop her from doing that passive-aggressive thing so many customers like to do -- which is smiling at the server and telling him/her everything is fine when it isn't, then bitching the entire meal about how horrible everything is and how stupid the server must be. I never could understand this out of the general public, but for one of our own? You've got to be fucking kidding me. My personal favorite is when she announces she hates the server, but doesn't know why. There's no reason for that kind of shit, especially when said server is within hearing distance.
S isn't the only one. How many servers out there wait on some obnoxious, know-it-all bitch who wants to razz you about one thing or another because she is/was a server and "knows how things are supposed to be done." Please. And it's definitely not cool of you to do this. Props to you if you think you're infallible, the best little 'ol slop slinger to come out since Alice. I suppose your perfection is never susceptible to error. Good for you. However, please remember us little people, who may not realize you've been sitting there for a moment while we were prepping food in the back for the dinner rush. Forgive us, oh Mighty One, for not being as prompt on your refill when we've been triple sat. For though you are perfection incarnate, the rest of us mere mortals are not and must be given leniency.
Now we've all encountered bad service before. Not all of us are goddesses (and gods) of the till/dining room floor. There are truly those who are rude, don't give a shit, and treat you with disdain whenever you happen upon their line. I always wonder what makes people that way. I think it's obvious that a lot of it has to do with the high tolerence for bullshit you must put develop, and for so little pay. Maybe these people are just assholes in real life (because what's real about the customer service face we put on in public, really?). But I have to wonder if these people, who are really our people -- salt of the earth who work their asses off in order to survive -- are the same people who come into my restaurant and bitch that the ribs taste bad (after licking the plate clean) and demanding it to be taken off the bill, then proceed to leave me a $1 tip on a $45 check... Are they one in the same? They appear to be. And in some cases, I know for a fact that they are. I live in a small enough town to know, Babies. Don't pull that shit on me. I know where YOU slum for a living.
But you know, I couldn't even make good on that threat. I was raised by a career waitress and knew how to say please and thank you before I knew my name. I couldn't walk into a place of business and not use these implements of polite society (and let's not forget respect) no matter how much of a bitch the cashier was to me. I couldn't leave less than 15% on a check no matter how bad the service was. I don't pass up tip cups, which are freakin' everywhere now. It's all about respect. And if we don't look out for each other, who the hell else will?
Mar. 14th, 2006 @ 12:06 pm
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Have you ever had one of those nights when everything goes spectacularly wrong? Tonight was another classic. I was told I could have the night off because I was sick, but the manager, John, later took it back and told me that I had to come in because another server called a couple hours before her shift because she was hung over. He told me he wouldn't have let her call out if I had called it first. To which I countered that I HAD it called first, when I was working my first shift. He just said, "yeah," in this regretful tone. Seeing my exasperation, he promised me up and down that I would be cut at 7:20 -- absolutely no later than that. Placated (read: broke and resigned to my fate), I thanked him and let it go.
Skip ahead an hour. One of the closers is two hours late. (She called to say it would only be a few minutes.) We all know it's because she's in Daytona, enjoying the last day of Bike Week. Does this affect my being cut at a decent time? Hell yes. Does this mean I have to close part of this girl's section while she flashes various parts of her anatomy to crusty-bearded, disheveled, horny, middle-aged bikers? Fuck. Yeah, that's what it means.
Life sucks.
Not only am I being screwed by two party girls and a manager who couldn't care less when his "coolness" is at stake, but the kitchen has it's head so far up it's ass it could do it's own toncillectomy.
Picture, if you will, a new guy on what we at Boney's equivalate to an expo. The man knows it all, of course. Never mind that three out of every five plates are set up with incorrect sides. Then we have Big D, we'll call him. Big D is a loud-mouthed ass at the best of times, but has recently entered a state of indifference. He spends most of his time glaring at the tickets on the line and the frantic waitresses lately. As a result, the meat gets cut at his own leisure. Big D is our best night cook.
Then we have the sweet, but utterly clueless, T. T has been a cook at Boney's for something like 10 years and still has no idea what goes with what. He can't read the tickets properly, and can't get the lead out of his ass. He's the sweetest guy you'll ever want to meet. He's also DOA in the pit.
We had all of these guys in the pit at once tonight. Then John decided to "help."
::bangs head against ice machine::
Sandwiches took upwards of 45 minutes to come out. I had grill orders come out before appetizers. I wanted to kill. Seriously.
Which led to some mild, but not unexpected, unpleasantness. One of my tables, a young couple, did in fact wait 45 minutes for their sandwiches. After apologizing profusely I noticed that the woman's beef was so rare it was bleeding all over the plate and soaking into the garlic bread. A lot of people request it like this, but it makes me nauseous to even look at it, so I told her that if the beef was too rare, I would take it back. She, and I by extension, had to deal with this crap after waiting for freakin' ever for her food. More than once I caught the two of them looking at each other with barely contained anger. Could I blame them? Absoultely not. It was beyond ridiculous to the point of being laughable. I went to John, who was now on the line (expo) and told him that these people were ready to walk out.
His reply? "They aren't the only customers in the building. They need to understand that."
I bit my tongue about reminding him how long it took because I've been down this road before and it's a no win situation. The only thing it would gain for me is a longer wait time for my other table's food out of spite and a bunch of comments that would set me off. (BTW, the pit window, where we pick up the food and basically see the entire food section of the restaurant, is in the front of the restaurant in full view of the customers. Though much cussing and tantrums occur there, I refuse to make an ass of MYself by making a scene.)
Long story short, they got the food. I replaced the disgusting blood sandwich, gave them to go drinks and boxes, apologized again, and sent them on their way. They were as friendly to me as they could be given the circumstances, but you could tell that their whole experience was ruined. And they seemed to be on a date.
Of course, they stiffed me. I can't even be upset about it.
Something occurred to my tonight that hasn't been obvious to me in a long time. It's easy to get caught up in the drama of fighting co-workers, the dishwashers slacking off in the back and leaving you with no silverware or salad plates, the cooks with their thumbs up their asses, fucking up your orders. To us, it's a work environment gone completely to shit. We bitch about this and that gone wrong, and threaten to find new jobs that aren't as screwed up as the current hell we find ourselves in. But it's too easy to forget the most obvious victim in all this -- the customer.
Yeah, common sense. I know. But during a really crappy shift you tend to focus on the "me" rather than "them." It's understandable. We're worried about tips, facing an irate customer, looking like a dumbass when you have to make a second trip to an already annoyed table to tell them that you're now out of the sweet potatoes you talked them into when they were upset you were out of baked potatoes. It's human nature to focus on the "me."
But...and this is going to sound corny...what about the customer? What about the mom who just wants the night off cooking, please and thank you? What about the couple who wanted to enjoy a quick and satisfying dinner before heading off for a movie? Or people who rarely go out, and then only as a special treat?
When they have a thoroughly fucked dining experience, it's not about a tip to them, or dealing with the inner bullshit of a restaurant. To them, they've been forced to endure what they've wanted to escape -- the tedium of dealing with the feeding process itself. If they wanted to worry about a long wait to eat, substandard food, and hearing bickering about how the kitchen is screwing someone somehow, they'd eat at home. You can't fault them for getting grumpy when their relaxing dinner -- such a simple thing to ask, really -- is spoiled by all this crap. People just want their food, the way they asked for it, at a reasonable time. Not all of them are assholes about it -- in fact, the assholes are few and far between. That's why we're all so outraged when we get one. That's what makes them interesting, in a morbid, masochistic way.
And even though I wish the couple would have understood that I was clearly not at fault here, clearly sorry, and clearly sick as a freaking dog, and they SHOULD have tipped me because it's the decent thing to do, I understand why they didn't. It was wrong of them. But I guess that was their only way of expressing their severe disappointment in Boney's.
I'm all Zen about it. For now.
Serving sucks.
Mar. 12th, 2006 @ 11:15 pm
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Working a split shift today. Am sick as a dog, but this doesn't prevent my co-workers from running the hell out of me to help them out. I made $62 in three hours, which isn't too shabby. Table Hog made $90+ on a shitty row...of course. ::seethes with jealousy::
A few random gripes...
If I seat you there, stay there, Princess. It confuses things and throws the chart/servers off when you move.
DO NOT presume that you can seat yourself, then complain that you have no menu or server. The sign politely asked you to wait to be seated. It's called reading comprehension, dearest. Use it.
If my arms are full of food, don't flag me down frantically to get your check (immediately, Miss!) when you are A) not finished eating, and B) planning to sit and chat for the next fifteen minutes. Ugh.
You were sat less than a minute ago. It's great that you already know what you want, but please refrain from the pissy looks and snobbish attitude about waiting a minute for your server to get to you. Do not turn in your seat to scowl at every waitress who walks in your general vicinity because one didn't materialize at your table the moment you were seated. Do not complain in a huffy, put-upon voice that you've BEEN ready to order ::with a disgusted shake of the head:: This is especially annoying when there are others at your table who need more time to decide what they want and needed the minute or two to look the menu over.
And on that note, please do not make me stand there, while there's a line out the door waiting to be seated and another table I haven't gotten to and food for me to run in the window, when you aren't ready to order. Telling me you're ready to order, then proceeding to look the menu over for another five minutes while I stand there in stunned silence, panicking about my other tables (one is almost always trying to flag me down while you selfishly keep me at your disposal -- I have other tables, asshole) is most definitely NOT cool. If you're ready, fantastic! I'll be glad to take your order. I'll even answer the thousand and one questions you invariably will have about the food. But don't tell me you're ready when you aren't. For the love. Of. God.
Which leads me to the next issue -- whining/complaining/general speaking to me while I'm taking another order is rude, not only to me, but to the people whose order I am taking. It makes you look like a high-maintainence ass with no manners. Please think about that the next time you harass me about a to go box after I've just visited your table and told you I'd get you one. No one likes a rude shithead who can't display common courtesy or patience.
Okay, I'm out of here to do my next shift. More to follow.
Mar. 12th, 2006 @ 03:42 pm
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I've never heard of anyone saying they wanted to be a server when they grow up. No one ever plans to enter into this occupation, yet there they are, fucking miserable, cowed by the hungry masses for 15% of the proceeds of whatever they've gorged themselves on. Circumstances, fate -- whatever -- leads a person to the wonderful and fulfilling career of waiting tables.
For some, it's a pit stop on the way to a better life. A necessary evil for the bills to be paid and tuition to be managed. Like countless others before me, I took the job as a college student looking for flexible hours with better than minimum wage pay. It was always supposed to be a part-time thing, but the money during tourist season is so seductive I'm thinking about taking on more night shifts. I won't drop out of school or anything crazy like that. God knows I don't want to be a lifer at Boney's Real Pit BBQ. Christ, nothing like that.
I'll be randomly posting my bitching, gripes, and general observations about the dubious joy of serving from time to time in the hopes of wrangling it all into a coherent, publishable draft. Anyone may comment. Anyone may add their own personal miseries right here -- feel free to vent away! From one bean slinger to another, I feel your pain, baby!
Welcome to my Adventures in Servitude.
Mar. 11th, 2006 @ 10:33 pm
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