Table 43
I deliver a young couple their food. After I put it down and ask if they need anything else, the guy asks if he can see my wrist (I have a tattoo there...so it wasn't all that weird) and I hold it out to him so he can take a better look. He asks the standard questions about font and where I got it done that I get from everyone. Then he says, "That is by far the sweetest fucking tattoo I've seen in a long time. Simple, but awesome." I tell him thanks and tell them both to enjoy their meal and I'll be back to check on them in a little while.
As I'm walking away I can hear the girl saying, "I can't believe you were flirting with her in front of me...and how is her tattoo better than mine? I have way better tattoos than her..." She kept saying stuff, but I was out of earshot, so I missed the rest.
I came back after a few minutes to check in on them, the guy wouldn't look at me or answer when I asked if everything was okay and if they needed anything else. The girl asked for more soda, though hers was more than halfway full. When I brought that, she asked for Tabasco. When I brought that she needed more napkins. When I brought those she'd dropped her fork on the floor and needed a new one. I had someone else take it to her and didn't go back to the table until they were both obviously done eating to take them their check. It came to $19.85 and the girl handed me a twenty and said, "Keep the change...for your next tattoo."
The guy had forgotten his sunglasses and ran back in a couple minutes after they'd left and gave me a ten and apologized for his girlfriend being a bitch. I thought it was hilarious.
Thursday
Saturday
Table 210
This story starts long before I started working a The Restaurant. Table 210 (who we'll call Hank, since that's his name) had been 86'd* before...for spitting on the floor. Yeah, why they let him back in I'll never know. He'd started coming in again about three months ago, he complained about every server in the restaurant, about the food, the prices, the management, etc. Then one day, he sat in my section and decided that I was the perfect server. From then on, he wouldn't sit in anyone elses section. He was actually upset when I took a week off. When I came back, he asked for an explantion to why I hadn't told him I'd be gone. (He's kinda crazy.)
Enough back story, lets jump to the fun stuff.
Last Saturday, Hank came in about 2:30 and sat at the bar. He ordered his usual; a beer, a rum and coke and some green chili. About 10 minutes into eating his chili, he flags me down.
"Look at this! There's a chunk of plastic in my chili! I was taking a bite and I bit into this...this plastic. It's a good thing I have my own teeth...because I was chewing on plastic!"
I look at what he's holding up to me and it's very distinctly an onion peel. Granted, it still shouldn't have been in his chili, but it's not plastic. So I say, "That looks like an onion peel to me. I'm sorry that was in there. Would you like me to get you a new bowl of chili?"
He looks at me as if I've asked, 'Would you like another bowl of warm vomit?'. "I don't even have an appetite anymore. I won't be able to eat all day. Can you blame me? There was plastic in my damn chili! Fucking Plastic! It's a good thing I have my own teeth. I was chewing on fucking plastic. I shouldn't have to pay for this."
"I'll take it off the bill, Hank. You won't pay for it."
"I shouldn't have to pay for it." "You won't, I'll take it off." "I should not have to pay for chili that has plastic in it. I've lost my appetite. Can you blame me? There was fucking plastic in my chili. Can you blame me for not wanting to eat? I lost my appetite for the whole day. I won't eat again. It's a good thing I have my own teeth. Fucking plastic in the god damn green chili!"
Did I mention that he was getting progressively louder during this madness and was nearly shouting when he said, "Fucking plastic in my god damn green chili!"?
I went over to explaing to my manager what was going on, showed her the "plastic" in question...which before I said a word about my theory on what the "plastic" really was said, "That's not plastic. That's an onion peel." While this was going on Hank found another manager and was complaining to him. Manager Two came over to Manager One and myself and related that Hank now wanted his drinks free as well. Manager One said, "Hell, no. He drank them, he can pay for them. Go take him the ticket." I asked Manager One if she'd rather deal with it since he was so upset...to which she replied, "You can handle it." Awesome.
I go over to Hank, who is now more upset after finding out he still has to pay for his drinks, and begins anew. "I should sue. This is no way to run a business. Charging people after they find Fucking Plastic in their green chili. If I didn't have my own teeth I could've died. I was fucking chewing on plastic. I should FUCKING SUE THIS RESTAURANT! I could. And could you blame me if I did? Could you blame me? I was chewing on plastic. It's a good thing I have my own teeth. I won't eat again all day. I'm so sick that I was chewing on FUCKING plastic that I've lost my appettite. Can you blame me? I mean, I was chewing on plastic. That SHIT, that...that, FUCKING PLASTIC was in my chili. I should go home and call my lawyer."
Manager One makes her way over, apparently the expletives being shouted across the restaurant were enough to distract her from her American Idol conversation.
"Hank, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice, pay for your check and leave. We've taken the chili off but you have to pay for the drinks. You drank them."
"This is no way to run a business. There was fucking plastic in my chili. I'm never coming back here again. I could sue you and could you blame me? I was chewing on fucking plastic."
"It wasn't plastic. It was an onion peel." Manager One walks away. Hank pays and right before he walks out the door, he turns and comes back.
He walks up to me, hands me a dollar and says, "I'm never coming in this fucking restaurant again. This is no way to run a business. I'll never come in here again. Never." He waits, I think waiting for me to be upset or something. But really I'm not upset at all...quite relived to hear this news actually, so I tell him, "Hank, I'm really sorry there was an onion peel in your chili but I'm not going to miss you." I did try to hand him back his dollar, but he didn't take it.
I really hope that was his last visit.
*86'd No longer allowed(in an area or premisis).
This story starts long before I started working a The Restaurant. Table 210 (who we'll call Hank, since that's his name) had been 86'd* before...for spitting on the floor. Yeah, why they let him back in I'll never know. He'd started coming in again about three months ago, he complained about every server in the restaurant, about the food, the prices, the management, etc. Then one day, he sat in my section and decided that I was the perfect server. From then on, he wouldn't sit in anyone elses section. He was actually upset when I took a week off. When I came back, he asked for an explantion to why I hadn't told him I'd be gone. (He's kinda crazy.)
Enough back story, lets jump to the fun stuff.
Last Saturday, Hank came in about 2:30 and sat at the bar. He ordered his usual; a beer, a rum and coke and some green chili. About 10 minutes into eating his chili, he flags me down.
"Look at this! There's a chunk of plastic in my chili! I was taking a bite and I bit into this...this plastic. It's a good thing I have my own teeth...because I was chewing on plastic!"
I look at what he's holding up to me and it's very distinctly an onion peel. Granted, it still shouldn't have been in his chili, but it's not plastic. So I say, "That looks like an onion peel to me. I'm sorry that was in there. Would you like me to get you a new bowl of chili?"
He looks at me as if I've asked, 'Would you like another bowl of warm vomit?'. "I don't even have an appetite anymore. I won't be able to eat all day. Can you blame me? There was plastic in my damn chili! Fucking Plastic! It's a good thing I have my own teeth. I was chewing on fucking plastic. I shouldn't have to pay for this."
"I'll take it off the bill, Hank. You won't pay for it."
"I shouldn't have to pay for it." "You won't, I'll take it off." "I should not have to pay for chili that has plastic in it. I've lost my appetite. Can you blame me? There was fucking plastic in my chili. Can you blame me for not wanting to eat? I lost my appetite for the whole day. I won't eat again. It's a good thing I have my own teeth. Fucking plastic in the god damn green chili!"
Did I mention that he was getting progressively louder during this madness and was nearly shouting when he said, "Fucking plastic in my god damn green chili!"?
I went over to explaing to my manager what was going on, showed her the "plastic" in question...which before I said a word about my theory on what the "plastic" really was said, "That's not plastic. That's an onion peel." While this was going on Hank found another manager and was complaining to him. Manager Two came over to Manager One and myself and related that Hank now wanted his drinks free as well. Manager One said, "Hell, no. He drank them, he can pay for them. Go take him the ticket." I asked Manager One if she'd rather deal with it since he was so upset...to which she replied, "You can handle it." Awesome.
I go over to Hank, who is now more upset after finding out he still has to pay for his drinks, and begins anew. "I should sue. This is no way to run a business. Charging people after they find Fucking Plastic in their green chili. If I didn't have my own teeth I could've died. I was fucking chewing on plastic. I should FUCKING SUE THIS RESTAURANT! I could. And could you blame me if I did? Could you blame me? I was chewing on plastic. It's a good thing I have my own teeth. I won't eat again all day. I'm so sick that I was chewing on FUCKING plastic that I've lost my appettite. Can you blame me? I mean, I was chewing on plastic. That SHIT, that...that, FUCKING PLASTIC was in my chili. I should go home and call my lawyer."
Manager One makes her way over, apparently the expletives being shouted across the restaurant were enough to distract her from her American Idol conversation.
"Hank, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice, pay for your check and leave. We've taken the chili off but you have to pay for the drinks. You drank them."
"This is no way to run a business. There was fucking plastic in my chili. I'm never coming back here again. I could sue you and could you blame me? I was chewing on fucking plastic."
"It wasn't plastic. It was an onion peel." Manager One walks away. Hank pays and right before he walks out the door, he turns and comes back.
He walks up to me, hands me a dollar and says, "I'm never coming in this fucking restaurant again. This is no way to run a business. I'll never come in here again. Never." He waits, I think waiting for me to be upset or something. But really I'm not upset at all...quite relived to hear this news actually, so I tell him, "Hank, I'm really sorry there was an onion peel in your chili but I'm not going to miss you." I did try to hand him back his dollar, but he didn't take it.
I really hope that was his last visit.
*86'd No longer allowed(in an area or premisis).
Tuesday
It's been awhile...lets jump right in.
Friday, Table 10
A party of four middle aged (45-ish) folks stopped by to have some dinner. First, I offered them drinks...they all ordered something different, but nothing terribly complicated (a bloody mary, a house margarita, an electric lemonade and a peach cooler) as I was walking away I overheard one of the guys say, "We should've made her write that down. You know she's going to fuck them all up." And right then, I knew this was only going to get better.
I made their drinks and got them back to them in a timely fashion and they weren't ready to order yet, so I wandered off and did some other fun waitressy stuff and when I get back to the dining room 80's Hair Guy (think Ted McGinley, Married with Children) from my table is talking to my manager/bartender who is making a new bloody mary for him. I walk over to the table when he gets back and ask if there'd been a problem. (I mean, obviously there had been but I like to know what the problem was and apologize properly if it was my fault or make sure the customer knows why it happened...it makes me feel better) 80's Hair says, "Yeah, in that bloody mary you made the celery was moldy and it was disgusting. But your manager took care of it for me." "O-kay. Sorry about that, I hadn't noticed mold but glad it's all taken care of now. Are you guys ready to order?"
They order and just to prove to them how very cool I am, I write nothing down. I walk away to make their salads and in the two minutes it takes for me to get back, 80's Hair is back at the bar talking to my manager. I drop off the salads and go check with the manager to see what his deal was this time. He said that when he told me about the moldy celery, I called him a liar and pointed out that he was going to have to pay for it anyway. I started to tell the manager that no such conversation had happened and he told me not to worry, he'd seen the celery, he knew the guy was full of it. So, we left it at that.
I bring out their food, everyone seems quite pleased. I'd made no mistakes and couldn't help but smirk at 80's Hair Guy. (I'd since decided he made the first rude comment, considering he'd been the only one starting any trouble.) I come back to check on them, for the second time, about 15 minutes into their meal to suggest dessert and clear plates...and 80's Hair Guy says, "Well, the steak is excellent. Really above par. Far more than I would've expected from this restaurant. But. Oh, nevermind. Wait. I really should tell you. But. No, don't worry about anything. It's all fine." Now, as curious as this is making me I have a new table and I really would just love it if he'd stop blabbering, "Sir, if something is wrong, tell me. I'll do my best to fix it, but I can't do anything if you don't say anything."
"I've picked six hairs out of my mashed potatoes. Everytime I took a bite there was another hair in my mouth. I threw them on the floor so I can't show them to you. Can you bring me new mashed potatoes?" And he hands me a plate with maybe three bites of potatoes left. I get him new potatoes and tell my manager about the six invisible hairs. My manager replied, "Fuck that weirdo. Don't give him no discounts. He's trying to get free shit. He better go to Wendy's and cut off his finger. *maniacal laughter*" Yeah, and the customer's the weirdo.
Anyway. After I dropped off their check, 80's Hair Guy comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, my meal's still on the ticket." "Yes, sir. I talked to my manager and since we replaced the food considering how much you'd already eaten, he felt a discount wasn't warranted. Have a great night."
After they'd left, the manager came over and said that 80's Hair Guy had threatened to call the Health Department for the moldy celery and the hair in his potatoes if his meal and drink weren't removed from the bill.
Friday, Table 10
A party of four middle aged (45-ish) folks stopped by to have some dinner. First, I offered them drinks...they all ordered something different, but nothing terribly complicated (a bloody mary, a house margarita, an electric lemonade and a peach cooler) as I was walking away I overheard one of the guys say, "We should've made her write that down. You know she's going to fuck them all up." And right then, I knew this was only going to get better.
I made their drinks and got them back to them in a timely fashion and they weren't ready to order yet, so I wandered off and did some other fun waitressy stuff and when I get back to the dining room 80's Hair Guy (think Ted McGinley, Married with Children) from my table is talking to my manager/bartender who is making a new bloody mary for him. I walk over to the table when he gets back and ask if there'd been a problem. (I mean, obviously there had been but I like to know what the problem was and apologize properly if it was my fault or make sure the customer knows why it happened...it makes me feel better) 80's Hair says, "Yeah, in that bloody mary you made the celery was moldy and it was disgusting. But your manager took care of it for me." "O-kay. Sorry about that, I hadn't noticed mold but glad it's all taken care of now. Are you guys ready to order?"
They order and just to prove to them how very cool I am, I write nothing down. I walk away to make their salads and in the two minutes it takes for me to get back, 80's Hair is back at the bar talking to my manager. I drop off the salads and go check with the manager to see what his deal was this time. He said that when he told me about the moldy celery, I called him a liar and pointed out that he was going to have to pay for it anyway. I started to tell the manager that no such conversation had happened and he told me not to worry, he'd seen the celery, he knew the guy was full of it. So, we left it at that.
I bring out their food, everyone seems quite pleased. I'd made no mistakes and couldn't help but smirk at 80's Hair Guy. (I'd since decided he made the first rude comment, considering he'd been the only one starting any trouble.) I come back to check on them, for the second time, about 15 minutes into their meal to suggest dessert and clear plates...and 80's Hair Guy says, "Well, the steak is excellent. Really above par. Far more than I would've expected from this restaurant. But. Oh, nevermind. Wait. I really should tell you. But. No, don't worry about anything. It's all fine." Now, as curious as this is making me I have a new table and I really would just love it if he'd stop blabbering, "Sir, if something is wrong, tell me. I'll do my best to fix it, but I can't do anything if you don't say anything."
"I've picked six hairs out of my mashed potatoes. Everytime I took a bite there was another hair in my mouth. I threw them on the floor so I can't show them to you. Can you bring me new mashed potatoes?" And he hands me a plate with maybe three bites of potatoes left. I get him new potatoes and tell my manager about the six invisible hairs. My manager replied, "Fuck that weirdo. Don't give him no discounts. He's trying to get free shit. He better go to Wendy's and cut off his finger. *maniacal laughter*" Yeah, and the customer's the weirdo.
Anyway. After I dropped off their check, 80's Hair Guy comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, my meal's still on the ticket." "Yes, sir. I talked to my manager and since we replaced the food considering how much you'd already eaten, he felt a discount wasn't warranted. Have a great night."
After they'd left, the manager came over and said that 80's Hair Guy had threatened to call the Health Department for the moldy celery and the hair in his potatoes if his meal and drink weren't removed from the bill.
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