Waiter Rant

2005-11-19T23:02:00.000-05:00

Waiter Rant has moved!!!!!
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2005-07-31T13:19:00.000-04:00

For technical reasons beyond our control.......

Commenting will be disabled for the next two days. I'll resume posting Tuesday.

I have a surprise in store for you.

2005-07-29T11:31:00.000-04:00

Where's Prozac When You Need It?

The phone rings.

"The Bistro," I answer, "How can I help you?"

"What kind of cuisine do you serve?" a female voice asks.

"Northern Italian madam."

"And what's your sushi special tonight?"

I pause a moment.

"We don't serve sushi madam."

"Why not?"

"Because we're not a Japanese restaurant?"

The caller thinks about that for a sec.

"Do you serve tuna?" she asks.

"We do."

"Can't you make sushi out of that?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asks incredulously.

"Because."

"Oh."

There's a long pause. I can visualize this woman sucking her thumb.

"Would you like to make a reservation?" I ask

"No, I really wanted sushi tonight."

"Sorry," I verbally shrug.

"Could you suggest a place?" she asks testily.

I give her the name and number of a very expensive sushi house and hang up. I look at the clock and sigh. So far I've put in eighty hours at the Bistro. When Fluvio comes back this Sunday it'll be 110 hours without a break. Phone calls like this threaten to destroy whatever sanity I have left. It's time to self medicate.

I go to the back and fetch a can of my new best friend – Red Bull.

"Cocaine in a can?" Gerald quips as he walks by.

"I can't afford the real thing," I deadpan.

"The dumpster dealers will cut you a break," Gerald says, referring to the criminal element that delivers behind restaurants everywhere.

"Never did that stuff actually," I reply.

"A couple more of these double shifts and you will be," Gerald observes.

"I'd settle for some Prozac," I say, "Got any?"

"I'm fresh out."

"Damn."

I go back to the front and start reading The Times. The Red Bull kicks in. Great. Now I'm wide awake borderline psychotic.

I try and lose myself in the Dining In Section. There's a good article about aperitifs. I crack up when I get to the part about Cynar, a liquor made from artichokes. Sounds disgusting I know but it's quite good on the rocks with soda. We have it. No one orders it. Hmmm. I wonder how that would taste mixed with Red Bull………….

Gerald interrupts my reverie.

"The lady on 26 left her credit card on the table," he says handing me the checkbook.

I look at the folder. Not only did she forget her card – she forgot to sign the receipt and leave a tip.

"Was this woman drunk?" I ask.

"I wish she was," Gerald replies, "she and might have been less of a bitch."

"What was the problem?"

"You know the type," Gerald says drolly, ''water with lemon, chicken Caesar spilt, and three hours of prattling with her friend."

"You can retire on checks like that," I observe humorlessly.

"You'll take care of it?" Gerald asks.

"I'll lock up the card," I reply, "maybe she'll come back for it."

"Ok."

Two hours go by. The lady doesn't come back. I call the credit card company.

"Hello, Credit Card Company," a pleasant voice chirps, "How can I help you?"

"A patron left her card behind in my restaurant," I say, "Could you call her and let her know we have it?"

"What's the number on the card?" the rep asks.

I rattle of some digits.

"Thank you sir," the rep says, "that card has now been deactivated."

"Wait a minute," I yelp, "I just wanted you to call the woman and tell her we have her card!"

"I'm sorry but its procedure to invalidate a card when it's reported lost or stolen."

"Could you at least call the lady and tell her she left her card here?" I ask.

"I'm not allowed to relay messages to a card member," the rep drones robotically.

"But…."

"Please destroy the card."

"But…."

"Destroying the card protects you and the customer," the rep continues.

"But…."

"Thank you for calling the Credit Card Company. Have a nice day."

Click.

Gerald comes back up to the hostess stand.

"Were you able to get a hold of her?" he asks.

"I called the credit card company and they canceled the card."

"Why didn't you call information and try and get her number?"

Now why didn't I think of that? Maybe because I'm exhausted.

"Too late now," I say.

"Try anyway."

I call information. The name on the card is unique. Of course they have her number. I ring her up.

"Hello," a professional voice answers.

"This is %*&%* at The Bistro. You left your credit card here."

"Oh yes I know."

"I'm sorry but I tried to have the credit card company contact you and they invalidated the card."

"WHAT!!!!!!" the woman shrieks, "I just got that card!"

"I'm sorry. I should've tried to call information and find you. But my first impulse was to call the credit card company."

"THAT WAS THE WRONG IMPULSE!" the woman yells.

"Well it's been deactivated for your protection."

"You're really stupid," the woman huffs.

"Well madam," I reply angrily, "you left your card here, didn’t sign the bill, and forgot to leave the waiter a tip. I don't know you. What would you have me do?"

"Now I have to get a brand new card!" the woman moans ignoring my tirade.

I look at the name embossed on the card. It has the letters Ph.D on the end.

"Pardon me," I ask, "are you a psychologist?"

"I'm a therapist," she says, "Why?"

"Just satisfying my curiosity," I murmur.

The woman hangs up violently. I hope she wasn't with a patient. Then again I feel bad for anyone she's treating. I cut up the card into tiny pieces and dispose of it.

Gerald returns. "So what happened?" I tell him.

"So I don't get a tip?" he asks.

"Something tells me you weren't getting one anyway," I reply.

Gerald laughs. "Fuck her."

I echo the sentiment and return to my paper. I look at the clock. Monday will be my first day off after eleven double shifts. I can't wait. Phone calls like this don't help. I'm burnt out. I start praying for a blackout so I can close early.

Of course it doesn't happen. I'm not gonna make it three more days.

I better get some Prozac soon. They should start putting it in Red Bull.

Hmmmm. Now there's a million dollar idea.

Attention! Waiter Rant has moved to www.waiterrant.net!

2005-07-28T11:36:00.000-04:00

Attention Loyal Waiter Rant Readers!

Waiter Rant is going to be down for maintenance for a short time today. The changes I hinted at earlier are coming soon. I have worked 70 hours so far this week without a day off. After I get some rest (and time to write) I'll post more new stories.

2005-07-25T01:57:00.000-04:00

Baby Bucks

I'm tired.

Fluvio went on vacation and I'm stuck minding the store. I've got seven more double shifts till he comes back. I'm worried. It's only Sunday and I'm already punchy. There are bags under my eyes and my cheeks ache from maintaining the customer friendly smile. My feet hurt. Every customer is becoming an obstacle to overcome. I dread the phone. Waiters constantly harass me with problems. By the end of the week I'll probably be psychotic.

The Sunday rush ends. The last tables are finishing their espressos. Soon the Bistro will be empty. I look at the clock. Fifteen minutes till closing. Thank God. I want to be in bed before midnight. I start doing my cashout.

I'm wondering why the drawer is short ten bucks when the door chimes. A youngish guy stands in the doorway. Damn.

"Can I help you sir?" I say cheerily, but my heart isn't in it.

"Can I get a drink and some take out?" the man asks.

The guy looks familiar. I spin through my mental rolodex of faces. Ah, there he is. Dan something or other. Cute wife. He proposed to her in my section two years ago. I stuck the ring on a piece of tiramisu. Now they're expecting their first child. Tempus Fugit.

"How's your lovely wife sir?" I ask, smiling at the memory of his spouse, laden with child, sweating like a pig in the July heat.

"She had the baby earlier this evening," he replies with a wan smile.

"Congratulations!" I offer.

"Thanks."

I can’t help but notice this guy doesn't look entirely happy.

"Mother and baby are both well?" I ask carefully.

"Yeah they're both ok. Jen was in labor for twenty four hours."

"Yikes"

"Now she wants Porcini Risotto from her favorite place," he says.

I groan inwardly and pull out my dupe pad. I have to let this guy get some food or my soul will burn in hell. The kitchen guys are gonna be pissed.

"So one Porcini Risotto. Anything for you sir?"

"Just a Ketel One on the rocks."

"Coming right up."

I put the risotto order in over protest and get the guy his drink.

"Here you go," I say handing the man a frosted highball glass. He scarfs the vodka down greedily.

"Want another?" I chuckle. If I just had a kid I'd drink too.

After a short pause New Dad replies, "No I'm good."

"Well it'll be twenty minutes until your entrée's ready. If you want another let me know," I offer as I return to the cash drawer to find my missing ten bucks.

I start counting but stop. Something's not right. Even with my back turned I can feel the tension coming off this guy in waves. I'm emotionally attenuated I guess. Chalk it up to my years working in a psychiatric hospital.

I turn around. New Dad's knee is bopping up and down nervously. His discomfort is making me anxious. I decide to intervene.

"So did you have a boy or a girl?" I ask.

"A girl."

"You poor man," I say winking.

"Tell me about it," the man sighs.

"God has an exquisite sense of justice sometimes doesn't he?"

That provokes a laugh. "You're right," the guy agrees.

Now you might think my comment's inappropriate but it isn't. Whenever men undergo a major life event, like getting married or having a baby, we guys tend to respond with a certain gallows humor. For example, my brother, on his wedding day, had to walk down a long dimly lit corridor to reach the main part of the church. As we groomsmen walked behind him, ostensibly to keep him from running away, I was reminded of a line from a movie. I couldn't help myself.

"Dead man walking!" I cried out.

The guys cracked up. The minister cracked up. My brother smiled nervously and walked to the altar to await his bride.

Now he's married and sipping beer on some beach in Maui with his beautiful wife.

My point? Sometimes a little ribbing helps soothe a guy's anxiety and snaps everything into proper perspective. Usually.

"And then there's dating. Oh man…." I continue saying to New Dad.

The guy's laugh's smaller this time. Actually he looks like he's about to throw up.

Ok, so maybe gallows humor isn't the way to go.

A quiet minute passes. The guy stares at the floor. He take a deep breath like he's about to say something. He doesn't. The clock ticks. I see moisture in his eyes.

"You'll be fine," I say gently.

The guy wipes his face quickly. "Yeah I know," he says, "but there's so much to worry about. I mean summer camp, private school, college. You know what college is gonna cost in eighteen years?"

"No idea."

"A million bucks!" he explodes.

"That much?" I wonder skeptically.

"And then there's braces, toys, broken arms," New Dad gushes as if a dam burst from within

I recognize what's happening. When New Dad held his baby for the first time the enormity of what's happening hit him. He's trying to process it all at once. I don't have kids of my own but I have friends who do. I've seen how they've handled it. I know what to say. I hope someone says it to me when my time comes.

"It's a lot of stuff but you'll break it down into small steps and it'll come together," I offer quietly.

"I guess," New Dad says.

"Think about everything at once and you'll go nuts," I say, "just remember, one day at a time."

"Your right," New Dad exhales.

"Enjoy your little girl. She's only a baby once."

I finally see a real smile. "She's beautiful," he says.

"I'll bet she is."

"You have kids?" New Dad asks.

"Me? Hell no. I just have joint custody of a dog."

"You'd be a good father."

I feel myself blushing. "Thank you sir."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty seven," I reply. New Dad is about ten years my junior.

"Well, be sure you have them before it's too late…"

"Sir," I say clasping my hand on New Dad's shoulder, "one of the great things about being a guy is we can still make babies twenty minutes after we're dead."

New Dad emits a soul cleansing laugh.

"I have plenty of time," I reassure him.

"You're a funny guy," New Dad says.

"I try sir."

The food's ready. I slip a tiramisu, gratis, into the bag, run the check, and take the order to New Dad.

"All set sir," I say, "and since your wife likes tiramisu so much I threw one in on the house."

"Thank you," New Dad says shaking my hand.

"You're very welcome."

The guy signs the check and leaves. I watch him walk off into the night his life changed forever. That kid's gonna be all right.

When I open the checkbook and my exhaustion dissipates. On a thirty dollar check the guy tipped me fifty bucks. Totally unexpected.

As I close up the Bistro I can't wipe the grin off my face. Baby bucks!

Ka-Ching.

I hope this guy has lots of babies.

Attention! Waiter Rant has moved to www.waiterrant.net! Please update your bookmarks and links to www.waiterrant.net

2005-07-22T13:07:00.000-04:00

To the Rescue!

I've received a couple of aggrieved emails lamenting that I haven't written many posts this week. I'm grateful to have readers that eagerly await each post. The readers, as you can see by the comments, are one of the major reasons why Waiter Rant's traffic has steadily risen over the past months. Thank you!

Normally I post two to three times per week. This past week has been especially crazy for me. My brother got married over the weekend. Now, "Fluvio," my boss, is going on vacation and I'm going to be living at the Bistro for the next twelve days. That's right – I'm gonna have to drag my laptop to work!

Right now, this instant, I'm sitting to write a post when Fluvio calls.

"Hello?"

"Get over here. Gwen is throwing up all over the place."

Oh, that's appetizing.

I groan and look at the clock. It's too early to be hearing this shit.

"So what do you want me to do?" I ask.

"The restaurant is full and I have no one to work," Fluvio says. I can hear the near panic rising in his voice.

"Can Gwen hold on till I get there?" I ask.

"I don't think so."

I sigh deeply. I wanted to post today. But I've got a job to do. I've got to go now.

"I'm on my way boss," I say. Off to the rescue. Again.

"Thanks!" Fluvio says hanging up.

Folks - I've got to go! I'm a waiter after all!

Have a nice weekend. New stories next week!

Attention! Waiter Rant has moved to www.waiterrant.net. Please change your links and bookmarks to www.waiterrant.net. Thanks!

2005-07-20T13:25:00.000-04:00

Lawyer Blog

"It is the trade of lawyers to question everything, yield nothing, and to talk by the hour." - Thomas Jefferson

Over the past couple of weeks I've been reading Opinionistas, a blog written by a young female lawyer in NYC. In addition to her describing life as an indentured billable hour servant, replete with grueling hours and impossible workloads, she also describes colleagues sloughing off their youthful idealism as they struggle inside the pressure cooker environment of a major law firm. I particularly liked this entry - Casting That Stone. It’s about how some women seem to abandon their hard earned professional lives in pursuit of safe, boring, marriageable men. Opinionista wonders if women have evolved, if at all, during the past sixty years of feminist awareness.

But what I really like about this blog is that you get the sense the author is in the midst of a psychological struggle of her own. In her world of high priced graduate schools, expensed lunches, and status hungry sycophants; everyone is constantly comparing themselves to everybody else. Do I make enough money? Am I more successful? Why is she married and not me? Who's got a corner office? Why did that associate get the deal? It can be a toxic soul eroding landscape that not everyone survives with decency intact.

Its obvious Opinionista has second thoughts about being a lawyer. Her ambivalence permeates the entire blog and you wonder what she'll end up doing. Will she chuck her expensive law school degree? Or will she make whatever accommodations she needs to make within herself to remain a lawyer? It's a process all professionals struggle with when they realize the career they've dreamed about since high school isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Well written and humorous - I recommend you check Opinionista out. The author does "question everything" but yields insights into a slice of life we might otherwise have never known about.

Go read!

2005-07-19T13:47:00.000-04:00

My Name is Clark Kent

Now that I'm thirty-seven I need glasses in order to read. Not prescription eyewear, just a good set of readers you can pick up at any pharmacy. Years of reading books, peering into computer monitors, and working in low lighting have taken their toll. At least the glasses lend me a professorial air.

I'm constantly taking the glasses on and off. I'm always reading something – a dupe pad, the POS monitor, or an order form. Sometimes I'm wearing them tableside. Sometimes I'm not. This occasionally leads to confusion….

A four top sits in my section. I'm wearing my glasses. I go to the table, special, cocktail them, and take their order.

When I deliver the apps I've taken the glasses off.

"Excuse me," a rather distinguished looking man says, "Could you ask our waiter to come over here?"

Huh? I am the waiter.

"I beg your pardon sir?" I ask.

"Could you get the waiter with the glasses?"

I stifle a laugh. Without my spectacles this guy thinks I'm a completely different person.

"Right away sir," I reply.

I duck out of sight and put my glasses back on. I return to the table.

"How can I help you sir?"

"I’d like another Manhattan please," the man asks.

I make a little bow and go to make the man's drink. I take my glasses off and deliver the cocktail to him.

"Who wanted the Manhattan?" I call out.

"It’s for me," the man signals.

As I place the drink in front of him he peers at me intently.

"Hey, you’re the same guy!" the man yelps.

"Actually my evil twin works here too. I guess you've met him," I reply winking.

The table busts out laughing.

"Arthur it's always been the same guy. You’re the one who needs glasses," his wife teases.

Chagrined the man take a sip of his drink. "Your other brother is the handsome one," he says.

Touche my brother. Touché.

I put my glasses back on. The table's cracking up. "So I look better with the glasses on?" I ask.

"Actually nothing can improve your mug," the man ripostes. I like this guy. He's customer you can screw with.

An optometrist eats in our bistro almost every day. He's left us a pile of business cards. I leave the table and go and fetch one. Returning I hand the card to Arthur the Blind.

"Call this guy. He can help you pick out a nice pair," I say triumphantly.

"Ok, ok," the man says waving his hands in surrender.

"If I may say sir, you desperately need them," I continue. The table is in stitches.

"I like your other brother better," Arthur laughs.

"Make sure you leave him a nice tip," I counter.

Arthur's wife turns to me and says, "You are the first waiter to ever give it back to him. Good for you."

Lady, I'm letting him off easy.

"For everything there is a first time," I say.

The table finishes dinner. I hand the check to Arthur sans spectacles.

"Here you go sir. Please don't be mad at my brother. He's a bad, bad waiter."

The man chuckles and takes the checkbook. When I return the book is stuffed with cash.

"That's all for you," Arthur says smiling.

"Thank you sir,"

I move out of sight and count out the bills. On a $200 check I get fifty bucks. Righteous.

The table gets up to leave. I thank the man for his generosity.

"You're a good sport sir," I say.

You really threw me with the glasses."

"Well sir," I say opening the door for him, "now I know how Clark Kent got away with it for so long."

The man roars with laughter and walks out into the humid night.

As I watch him go I realize Clark Kent and I have a lot in common. Like the reporter from the Daily Planet I too have a secret identity to protect.

Mild mannered waiter by day – Superblogger by night! Hey, I've always wanted to be a superhero. I think I'll indulge myself in that delusion for a while.

Just call me Clark Kent.

Now where's a phone booth?

2005-07-14T13:05:00.000-04:00

Because I'm Pretty?

A while back we had a waitress I'll call Sue. Initially she seemed like a good worker, but, after a few weeks, her true work ethic became glaringly apparent. Unwilling to work her way up the totem pole, she felt she was entitled to the best shifts, always came late, did minimal side work, and somehow managed to leave before everyone else. But when Sue was on the floor she made a bundle in tips. Why?

Sue was twenty-two and drop dead gorgeous.

I'm not talking run of the mill cute. Sue was Playboy Bunny/pornstar/supermodel amazing looking. Her sex appeal was a living breathing palpable force. Ernesto, one of the sous chefs, turned into a quivering lump of guacamole whenever she entered the kitchen. Sue could transform grown men into eager to please little boys and subdue women into awestruck silence. Well aware of her "assets," Sue used them to the utmost.

One day during the summer, at the start of the shift, Sue comes up to me.

"Can I leave early tonight?"

"Why?" I ask warily.

"Because I'm going to the shore with (Insert rich guys name here) and he wants to get there by 10pm," Sue explains.

"We're busy tonight. I'll probably need you," I say.

"But he really wants to pick me up early."

"Good for him," I snort.

"Please," Sue pouts.

"We'll see."

Sue puts her purse on the table. "But I've already packed my bag," she says with a mischievous smile.

"You put all your stuff in that thing?" I ask in amazement.

Sue reaches into her bag and pulls out an electric blue bikini, a slinky one piece miniskirt, a thong, and a pair of high heels.

"You see I'm all ready to go," she whispers slyly.

Goddamn. This girl packed all her stuff into a small purse. I'm not immune to Sue's charms. The thought of her in that bikini gets my mind racing. But then again that's exactly the effect she was going for.

"Talk to me later," I say excusing myself. I need a cold shower.

The night is, of course, crazy busy. Sue works the floor and makes a ton of cash. Around nine o'clock she comes up to me again.

"My boyfriend's outside. Can you finish up my last table so I can go?"

I look out the window. Her "boyfriend" is in his forties and drives a Porsche.

I glance at my watch. Truth be told, the other waiters are hungry for cash and wouldn't mind picking up her slack. I have no reason to keep her here.

"What's going on with your last table?" I ask.

"Oh it's a bunch of guys. They're almost finished." Sue says.

"Ok you can go."

Sue happily runs downstairs to change. I go over to the POS computer. The check on Sue's last table is $300. I transfer it to my number.

When Sue returns she's in her miniskirt and high heels. The effect is stunning.

"Well have a nice time," I say appreciatively.

"Thanks," she replies, "You can give me that table's tip the next time I see you."

??????????

"I'm sorry what did you say?" I ask dumbfounded.

"You can give me the tip from those guys on Monday." she clarifies.

"Uh – no."

"What?" Sue stammers in disbelief.

"If you leave early the tip's mine," I tell her.

"But those guys are gonna leave me a big tip." Sue protests.

"Thanks for the money," I reply, "Appreciate it."

"You can't do that," Sue exclaims.

"Nothing in this world's free darling."

"But……"

I hold out my hands like a scale and weigh out her options. "Boyfriend or money?" I tease.

Sue's face flushes a deep red.

"Money or boyfriend? I say moving my hands up and down. I start to hum the tune from Jeopardy. I know, I know – I can be a real prick sometimes.

The boyfriend impatiently raps on the window and points at his watch.

Sue pulls on her lower lip. Looking at me seductively she says, "You're just kidding. I know you'll give me the tip."

I cross my arms and stare into her big blue eyes.

"Why on earth should I let you leave early and still give you the tip from that table?" I ask.

Sue thinks about that for a moment. She's struggles to find an answer. Finally she says,

"Because I'm pretty?"

I can hear Betty Friedan rolling in her grave. I laugh out loud.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Sue's face hardens into a brittle mask. Suddenly she's not pretty anymore.

"I'll tell Fluvio you're stealing my tips," she hisses.

"Fluvio will give me your tip himself," I shoot back.

'That's not fair," she yelps.

"Life's not fair babe."

"And I thought you were a nice guy," she says.

"You shouldn't confuse being a nice with being a tool."

"I can't believe your taking my money," she stammers.

"Sue, to be honest, I'm tired of your bullshit," I say, "and your social life is your problem."

Sue storms out.

I finish Sue's table. The guys leave her, or rather me, $100.

"Make sure the girl gets that," one of the men burbles.

"But of course sir," I say slipping the C Note into my pocket.

After the work the staff pile into a bar for drinks. Thanks to Sue's largesse the drinks are on her. I explain to Fluvio what happened.

"If she asks me for that tip she's in for big surprise," he says.

"She's cute but she's a pain in the ass," I say sipping my beer.

"She's never happy with her schedule," Fluvio ruminates.

"Since she's so busy at night why don't you assign her to lunch shifts?" I ask.

Fluvio smiles. Lunch shifts are a waiter's death sentence.

"Permanently," I add.

"I think I will" Fluvio agrees. We toast each other.

Sue quit the next week. Ernesto was miserable.

Whether you're a boy or a girl – looks can only take you so far.

And I am not a tool.

2005-07-12T14:26:00.000-04:00

Check Please

Ah, the check – my favorite part of your meal.

I know this is the part of the dining experience most people could do without. But it's when I get paid! A lot of people are idiots when it comes to the simple act of paying for services rendered so I've compiled a little tutorial to make the whole currency exchange a little smoother.

1. Know when it's time to leave. Are you finished? Plates cleared? Dessert and coffee gone? Are there twenty customers waiting by front door for a table? Is the waiter hovering nervously around your table? Did the hostess offer to get your coats? That's probably because the restaurant needs the table. It's our fault we overbooked the restaurant you say? Not so fast. 15% of reservations never show up! What are we supposed to do? Lose that money? No – so we overbook Take the hint and get out. I know that attitude ticks people off but a restaurant is a BUSINESS - not an extension of your living room. It's time to pay the bill.

2. Ask for the check. Sounds simple right? It's considered rude for a waiter to drop a check without the customer asking first. Some people are unaware of that convention so they sit around pissed off wondering why the waiter hasn't produced the checkbook. We're not psychic! A sure fire way to discreetly ask for the bill is to put your credit card or wallet on the table. We can figure out you want to leave. (However, if you do get the bill before asking for it that's waiter speak for "get out." A tactic usually employed when a waiter's under pressure from management to turn tables and increase revenue. Or the waiter just wants to go home- usually the later.)

3. Don’t fight over who's paying the bill. Sometimes your friend wants to pay for dinner. I say let them. However, if you anticipate a "fight" over whose the more generous party please keep the waiter out of it. We always lose out. Go to the waiter at the start of the meal and hand him your credit card. If there's still a disagreement the waiter will follow the following rules to avoid dropping the check on the table like a hockey puck and letting you scramble over it:

a. Will give check to the regular customer of he or she demands it.
b. Will give check to person who made the reservation.
c. Will give check to person he or she knows is the better tipper.
d. Hand the check to the five year old and crack everyone up.

I've had people chase me and try and take their friend's credit card out of my hand so they could pay the bill. Don't make a scene. Grab something out of my hand and you'll have more than the bill to worry about.

4. Don't fight over who's not paying the bill. Sadly this is the reverse of Rule # 3 – no one wants to pay the bill. Every waiter recognizes this situation. You've dropped the check and no one make a move to pay it. Passive aggressiveness all around. This usually happens with adults eating with grown children or excessively parsimonious middle aged yuppies. Occasionally they get into shouting matches. Someone had better pay – and fast.

5. Sticker Shock. Can't believe how high the bill is? Well the prices are posted on the menu. Did you ask the server how much that Osso Buco on special was? No? Caveat emptor pal. Don't complain to me about the prices because I don't set them. It's your responsibility to keep track of what you're spending not mine. My job? I'm like a stripper. It's my job to separate you from as much of your money as possible.

6. Let your server know the check is ready. Don't leave the checkbook lying forgotten in the middle of the table while you're having your "my son/daughter is more successful than yours/I make more than money than you/I live in a nicer building/I'm thinner/I have a better job than you" conversation. The waiter has things to do. He can't hover over your table waiting to see if you placed cash or a credit card in the checkbook. You have to let the server know it's ready to be picked up. We hate going to the table and asking "can I take that for you?" when you haven't even looked at it. Ways to avoid any unpleasantness are:

a. If you're paying in cash make sure the bills are peeking out of the checkbook.
b. If you're paying by credit card use the old stand by – set the checkbook upright on the table with the credit card sticking out.
c. For the love of God don't put the bill in your lap, under a napkin, or, my favorite, lean on it with your elbows. That's some passive aggressive shit. It screams that you don't want to part with your cash. Don't look like a cheap bastard. Just give me the friggin check.

7. Splitting the bill. That's easy. Most restaurants' computer systems can split a bill four or five ways. If it's a mix of credit cards and cash explain how you would like me to process the bill. Separate checks? Unless you asked at the beginning of the meal for separate checks you ain't getting 'em. There is no way I can remember who got what two hours later. Fuck you and your expense account.

8. PAY IN CASH! – If at all possible pay in cash. The owner will love you. The waiter will love you. Why? Credit card companies charge a fee for every transaction. (Some unscrupulous owners take the transaction fee out of a waiter's tips. It's illegal but it happens.) Now I don't always pay in cash when I go out. I'm not unreasonable. But leaving the TIP in cash will always make you the waiter's friend.

9. Dine and Dash – Thinking about skipping out on the bill? Don't even think about it. I will chase you down like a dog and hold you till the cops arrive. You ain't doing dishes – you're going to jail. If a customer skips out on the bill it's the WAITER who has to pay for it. I'm sorry but I don't like you that much

10. Credit card declined? Nothing warms the cockles of my heart than to tell some Sex in the City wannabe, "I'm sorry but this card is experiencing some difficulty." (Translation? – YOUR CARD'S NO GOOD YOU LIVING BEYOND YOUR MEANS DICKWAD!) Don't argue with me either because I've run the card several times. That's why there's a bunch of declined slips in your checkbook! And don't get on your cell phone and fight with your credit card company. It makes you look like an asshole. Just give me a card you haven't maxed out at the Sharper Image.

11. No money? Hey it happens. People occasionally leave their wallet or purse at home. If you're a regular, no sweat, we'll get you the next time. But if I don't know you? I'm taking hostages. Leave your wife or girlfriend behind as a bargaining chip while you go and secure funding. If you don't come back? You'll have given your companion a date she'll never forget.

(It also helps to leave your cell phone, PDA, Rolex, or youngest child with the waiter until you come back with the money. Don't worry. We'll take good care of them.)

12. Don't subsidize your friend's meal. This has happened to all of us. You get a salad and a bowl of pasta. Your friend gets the rack of lamb and several martinis. When the bill comes he or she says. "Let's split it." That's bullshit. Grow some balls and stand up for yourself. Make them pay for what they ate.

13. THE TIP What do I need to say that I haven't said already? You know what to do. 15% and up.

14. Automatic gratuity. Most places add a mandatory 18% gratuity or service charge on parties of six or more. Language is important here. If it's listed as a gratuity you're under no legal obligation to pay that amount. (You will, however, discover you'll have a tough time getting reservations in the future) If it says "service charge" you're legally obligated to pay it. Don't like it? Cry me a river. I can dial 911 really fast. The French Laundry adds an 18% service charge to EVERY bill so give me a break.

15. The Double Tip. Now here's where reading Waiter Rant pays off for you the consumer. Beware of the Double Tip! Sometimes customers, often drunk, are unaware the gratuity is added to the bill so they TIP ON TOP OF IT! Example:

Bill - $100
Mandatory Gratuity - $18 (figured pre tax)
Total $118

Customer stupidly leaves $141.

That's $23 extra bucks! Now some waiters will be pissed that I'm telling you about this little secret but tough shit. It’s dishonest and I'd rather you come back to my bistro and give me money over the long haul. It doesn't pay to alienate customers with petty thievery. That being said – if the customer's a complete asshole my ethics might get compromised real fast.

16. Don't bitch to me about the taxes on the bill. Do I look like the governor? Write your assemblymen.

17. Making sure you did the right thing. Most waiter manuals say its bad form to take a paid check of the table before the customer leaves. That's crazy. I always check the bill before a customer walks out the door. Why? To make sure there are no problems. I can't tell you how many times the customer has taken BOTH credit card slips. It also helps to embarrass the shit out of some tightwad who's stiffed me on the tip. I position myself at the front door when they leave and say "Oh thank you for the nice tip sir!." Asshole. Don't come back.

18. Don't think the check is the credit card slip! Customers, usually smashed out of their minds, think they've handed me their plastic and sign the bill thinking it's the credit card receipt. Hold on! I need the credit card FIRST Einstein. Don't make me chase you!

19. Repeat after me. The yellow copy's yours. The white one's mine. The yellow copy's yours. The white one's mine.

20. I say "Thank You." You say "You're welcome."

21. Problems with the bill? Ask for a manager. Since I'm the manager at my place pray I'm in a good mood. Your rights as a customer?

a. Bill should be clearly itemized and legible. (Does not apply at Dim Sum restaurants)
b. Never pay for what you didn't order.
c. If you see something on the bill you don't understand you have every right to have the matter explained courteously to you.
d. If an establishment says it takes a certain credit card on the door than they have to take it. I ate at a French place once and paid with Amex. The waiter said, "We prefer Visa." I said I saw an Amex logo on the door. "We still prefer Visa," he said. "Well I prefer American Express," I replied handing him the card. He ran it grudgingly. Tough shit pal. Some waiters can be assholes.

22. Paid up? Go home.

If you have any additional guidelines I didn't think of feel free to leave your suggestions in the comments section.

Addendum

Ask for change. If you hand me a checkbook filled with cash tell me if you want money back. Sometimes this isn't a problem. If you hand me two hundred dollar bills and the check's $130 that's a no-brainer. However, if you hand me a hundred dollar bill and the bill's $80 am I assume you're a great tipper? Should I keep it? Let your server know.

2005-07-07T10:49:00.000-04:00

London 7/07/05

"The way was long and weary, But gallantly they strode, A country lad and lassie, Along the heavy road. The night was dark and stormy, But blithe of heart were they, For shining in the distance The lights of London lay. O gleaming lights of London, that gem of the city's crown; What fortunes be within you, O Lights of London Town!" - George Robert Sims

Hang in there guys. Our thoughts are with you.

The lights of London shall always burn bright!

2005-07-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

Special People

It's Sunday afternoon and the Bistro's packed with retarded people.

No, I'm not dissing Yuppies again. The customers are all part of a tour group. With the exception of a few staff members, the entire crowd consists of "differently abled" or "special" people. Since Sunday's are usually slow Fluvio booked the party and gave them a moderately priced package. Eating at the Bistro is a real change for these people. I know. Years ago I ran a group home for developmentally disabled adults. Going to IHOP was the norm.

"I want cheesecake!" one of the customers shouts. He hasn’t even gotten his salad yet.

"Don't you be worried. You'll get your cheesecake," Fluvio says smiling.

"I want it now!" the man yells.

"Hey, I cook for you and you don't want it?" Fluvio teases jokingly.

"Sorry," the man replies.

I look at Fluvio. He's managing this beautifully. Occasionally he gets flustered with customers but today he's the soul of patience.

"You're handling this really well," I tell him.

"Someone in my family is like these people," he replies.

Ah I think to myself. Just when you think you know someone they surprise you.

"Well I used to work with these people so I'm impressed."

"Thanks," Fluvio says.

I survey the crowd. Like people in general, retarded people have a variety of personalities. Some are rambunctious. Others are quiet. I note most of the people say "please" and "thank you." A couple sits together holding hands. She's wearing a simple dress. The man's wearing a suit twenty years out of style. They seem to enjoy each others company.

"Excuse me sir," another woman calls out.

"Yes madam?" I reply.

"I don't have any money," she says opening her empty purse for emphasis.

"I think it's already taken care of madam." The staff's probably holding the money.

"Ok," she says eyes downcast.

"Enjoy you dinner Madam."

The entrée's come out and the customers tuck into it with gusto. The staff retires to the coffee machine for a break

"So you used to work with these people?" Beth asks me.

"Jeez," I say shaking my head, "that was like fourteen years ago." Time flies.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was hands down the hardest job I ever had."

"How long did you work there?"

"One year."

"That's not a long time."

"It was all I could take."

"Sounds rough," Beth says.

I smile. "Beth, let me tell you a story……..

I'm twenty-three, unemployed, and living at home. That's, to put it mildly, putting a crimp in my social life. One day I see an ad in the help wanted section.

Wanted
Residential Group Home Manager for
Developmentally Disabled Adults
$22,000 a year Studio Apartment included.

The pay sucks but at least I'd be out of my parent's house. I have a BA in Psych. I apply for the job and get it.

The job turns out to be incredibly hard. Most of the residents are severely autistic. I'm basically the primary caregiver because the rest of the staff at the home are a bunch of lazy shiftless bastards. They eat, sleep, watch TV, and collect a paycheck. I fire all of them.

Within three months I find a new staff. After some fits and starts the home starts to run like a well oiled machine. The residents seem happier. In my spare time I turn my studio apartment into a swinging bachelor pad. Attached to the group home it has a private entrance but can be accessed through a door in the residents' living room. It's small but it's mine. I even buy a new bed.

I'm eager to break it in – if you know what I mean.

Sure enough nature takes its course and late one night I bring a young woman back to my "place." As I pull in the driveway I see a big moon face peer out the window. It’s Tony. He's twenty five years old, two hundred and thirty pounds, and autistic. He's my toughest client.

I wave to Tony. His face disappears behind the curtain. He never sleeps. He prowls around the house all night talking to himself. The doctor's are trying to titer his medication to a therapeutic level. So far no luck.

The girl and I enter through the private entrance. I told her the deal with my apartment. She didn't seem to care.

Once inside she turns to me.

"Cute place."

"Thanks"

"I have to use the bathroom. Why don't you put on some music?" she asks slyly.

"Right away."

I light some candles and put my cool new Enigma CD into the stereo. The girl returns from the bathroom.

"Nice music,' she says.

"Yeah aren't they great?" (Hey, I'm only 23)

"Come here," she purrs.

Soon we're making out. Her shirt comes off. I pull her towards my bed. I reach around to undo her bra.

I fumble with the clasp. Ah Waiter - you smooth operator you.

"Let me help you," the girl says breathily. She reached back and undoes the clasp easily. Her bra starts to slip off. I'm salivating.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Someone's banging on the door from inside the group home. A strange disembodied voice cries out,

"HELP! HELP! DON"T YOU HURT HER! DON'T HURT HER! MISSES HEALY? MISSES HEALY? I'M YOU'RE FRIEND. YES. BOOOOWEEEEEOPPPP!"

Oh God, it’s Tony. He's having an episode.

"Who the hell is that?" the girl says clutching me in terror.

"One of the residents. Don't worry about it," I say eager to see her goodies.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

"Don't you think you should see what's up?" the girl says putting her bra back on.

Aggravated I go to the door and open it.

Tony stands naked in the door. He has an erection. He's masturbating furiously.

"Jesus!" the girl shrieks.

The irony that I also have an erection is not lost on me.

"DON’T YOU HURT HER!" Tony yells at me.

Just great.

I gently guide Tony back into the house. The overnight staff and I put him to bed. We remind Tony that if he wants to masturbate he needs to do it in PRIVATE.

"Ok," he says.

"Good night Tony."

I return to my apartment. The girl's fully dressed with her purse in her hand.

"I want to go home.'

"But…."

"Now." Her tone brooks no disagreement.

I take the girl home. It's the last time I see her……

"Oh my God. That's too funny," Beth laughs, "What happened to Tony?"

"Oh the story gets better," I reply, "The next morning he hit me in the head with a frying pan. When I tried to take it away from him he bit me on the arm. I had to go to the hospital."

"Wow," Beth says shaking her head.

"Tony was heading for a crisis. He's just picked the night I was trying to get laid to flip out."

"No wonder you didn't last long," Beth chuckles.

"But it was a good experience," I say.

"Why?"

I look out upon our crowd of retarded customers and smile, "Because if I got cockblocked, hit with a fry pan, and bit in a twenty four period I think I can handle anything some Yuppie customer throws at me."

"True," Beth concurs.

"Besides," I say, "these guys are a really nice group of people."

"The people out there are better behaved than half our regular customers," Beth says.

I burst out laughing.

"At least they say please and thank you!"

"You're right."

The dinner ends and the special people leave happy. They leave us a nice tip. Go figure. .....

Ok. Ok.

So I dissed the Yuppies a little bit.

And no - I never figured out who "Misses Healy" was.

2005-07-06T14:15:00.000-04:00

My Sister's Keeper

I'm sitting in a bar after work with Beth and Arlene. It was a long night and we're rewarding ourselves with some post shift libations.

Beth's drinking a beer. I'm finishing up a dirty martini. Arlene, who is almost seven months pregnant, is sipping her single disciplined glass of wine.

I signal to the bartender for another drink. Arlene looks at me forlornly.

"Hey that's not fair," she says, "I can only have one."

"When you're in the recovery room I'll bring a pitcher of martinis instead of flowers," I quip.

"I still can't have it. I'll be breastfeeding," Arlene replies tartly.

I laugh. "I guess you're drinking days are behind you Mommy."

Arlene smiles. She just turned thirty. This is her first child. Her entire life is about to change.

The bartender sets a fresh drink in front of me. I take a sip. Mmmm. Ice cold.

"Hey look over there," Beth says nudging me.

"What is it?"

"Another pregnant lady at the bar," she giggles.

A very large pregnant woman struggles onto a bar stool. The bartender goes up to her. She orders a Jack & Coke.

"Jesus – that's a bit much," I remark.

The barman deposits the drink in front of her. She sucks it down in under a minute. Wiping her mouth she gets up and waddles outside onto the patio. She lights up a cigarette.

"Can you believe that?" Arlene says in horror.

"I'm afraid I do," I reply sadly.

We watch the woman as she returns to the bar and proceeds to drink herself into a stupor. Some of her running buddies join her. They start to get loud.

"I don't think I can see anymore of this," Arlene says rubbing her tummy nervously.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," Beth agrees.

I look over at the woman. She's having a good time, laughing uproariously at her friend's jokes, oblivious to the life growing inside her.

"Let's go," I say polishing off my drink.

We ask the barman for the bill. He brings it too us.

"Thirty bucks," he says. I reach for my wallet. Drinks are on me tonight.

"Hey! I want another drink," the pregnant lady calls out.

"Just a sec lady," the barman snaps.

As I count out the bills I whisper, "Don't you think that lady's had enough?"

The bartender stares at me blankly. "Not my problem," he replies.

"Yeah, but she's pregnant."

The bartender glances over at Arlene. She only drank half her wine. "I'm not my sister's keeper," he says shrugging.

I push the pile of bills towards him. "I guess you aren't," I mutter softly. The barman snatches up the cash and walks away.

"Ok, let's go," I sigh.

We walk out the French doors onto the patio. The air is thick with tobacco smoke. The pregnant woman comes up behind us with her fresh drink and lights up a cigarette. Arlene moves away from her.

The woman goes over to one of the outside tables and sits down. She starts talking to a young girl with dreadlocked hair and arms covered in tattoos. Off to her side is a little girl, maybe two years old, fast asleep in her baby carriage. She clutches a plush toy close to her chest.

My heart plummets. It's one in the morning.

"Jesus, those ladies are never going win Mother of the Year," Arlene says angrily.

"Who brings a little girl to a bar this late?" Beth asks.

I look at the little girl. I look at the pregnant woman.

"People who are angry at having kids," I reply.

Beth looks at me quizzically.

"Sometimes people are angry they have to grow up and get their shit together - so they take it out on their kids."

"Maybe," Beth says.

"The funny thing is most of the anger is subconscious. If you asked them they would tell you that their kid is the most important thing in the world."

"Well they're not acting like it," Beth replies.

"Those women shouldn't have kids," Arlene says throwing in her two cents.

"Probably not," I sigh.

We walk Arlene to her car and say our farewells. I go home. I can't get the little girl in the carriage out of my head.

A couple of days later I've got a pregnant woman in my section. She orders a glass of Merlot. No big deal. After she finishes her appetizer she orders another. I bring it reluctantly.

The woman finishes her entrée. The table is cleared. I bring the dessert menus.

The woman waves me off. "No dessert for me," she says, "But I'll have another glass of wine." I notice she's slurring her words slightly.

I remember the alcoholic pregnant lady from a few nights ago. I think about the little girl in her baby carriage.

"I'm sorry madam," I reply, "I cannot bring you another drink."

The woman stares at me in surprise. "Why not?" she asks.

"I just can't."

Our eyes lock. A few seconds pass. The woman starts to say something but reconsiders. She knows why I won't serve her.

"I make a mean cappuccino," I offer in conciliation.

"That's probably a good idea honey," her husband chimes in. Great pal. Now you decide to find your balls.

The woman lets out a deep breath. "Ok. Just make it decaf."

I win.

"Thank you madam," I reply gratefully.

The man and woman finish their desserts and leave. The tip's 15%. I'm lucky these people didn't make a scene.

The night ends. I go into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. As I'm toweling off I look my reflection.

My father once told me that if you're ashamed of what you see in the mirror you're in trouble.

I think about my pregnant customer. Sometimes we are our sister's keeper.

The man in the mirror smiles back at me. I'm not in trouble.

At least not yet.

2005-07-05T01:45:00.000-04:00

Animal Cop

It's Sunday morning and I'm hurting.

My brother's bachelor party was Friday night and I'm still trying to shake off the after effects. My pounding headache morphed into fatigue about the same time my joints began to throb. Goddamn that scantily clad shooter girl and her $2 tubes of poison. Why did she pour that stuff down my throat? Oh that's right – I asked her to. Things are still kinda of hazy.

I hole up behind the hostess stand with a newspaper and an extra large cup of coffee. My eyes feel like the inside of an empty beer bottle. I've got to be on the floor twelve hours today. I have no idea how I'm going to make it. I turn to the paper and start reading about the lusty fight brewing over Sandra Day O' Conner's replacement. I remember when she was appointed.

Engrossed in thrilling reading about Originalist versus Deferential Judicial Conservatism I begin to forget how much pain I'm in. The Bistro's slow. Everyone's away for the holiday. I take a sip of my coffee and settle in for a slow afternoon. I pray no one bothers me.

Suddenly a shadow falls across my paper. God's seems to be ignoring me today.

"Excuse me how long has that dog been there?" a female voice says.

I look up. An intense looking middle aged woman hovers over me.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" I ask painfully.

"I said how long has that dog been in that car?" the lady says pointing towards the street.

I look outside. A little dog is sitting inside a Mercedes Benz.

"I don't know Madam."

"Well it's been cooped up there since we've been here," the lady huffs.

"And how long have you been here?" I inquire.

"Half an hour."

"So what's the problem?"

The woman glares at me. "You shouldn't leave a dog inside a hot car."

"But Madam, it's not hot out."

"Look at the poor thing. He's suffering," she says oblivious to me.

I look back at the dog. His tail's wagging.

"He seems alright to me."

"I can't enjoy my meal with this going on," the woman pouts.

The woman's a kook. The dog's fine. What do I look like? The ASPCA?

"Madam, if it appears the dog's in distress I'll call the cops," I say trying to humor her.

The woman shakes her head and returns to her window table. I turn back to my paper.

Five minutes later the woman comes back.

"Did you call the cops?" she asks.

"No Madam."

"Why not?"

"The dog's fine."

"How do you know?" she counters harshly.

I reluctantly put down my paper and go outside. The temperature's a pleasant 76 degrees. I walk up to the luxury automobile. The car's parked in the shade and the windows are open halfway. I reach inside. The dog licks my hand. His nose is cold and wet. He waves his tail excitedly. The interior of the car is cool. No problems. I walk back inside.

The woman is back at her table. I go over to reassure her.

"Madam, the inside of the car is cool. Everything's fine. Enjoy your lunch."

"You see Rachel," the woman's husband says, "the dog's ok."

"It's still wrong Bob," she counters.

"The waiter will keep on eye on him," Bob says.

Thanks for the promotion Bob. Now I'm the dogcatcher.

"I can't stand when people mistreat animals," Mrs. ASPCA growls cutting into her $25 hunk of charred animal flesh.

I smile to myself. That dog's chilling in a $100,000 car. The bovine she's eating wasn't so lucky. The last thing that went through its mind was a stainless steel bolt.

"Enjoy your steak madam," I say returning to the hostess stand.

I have a little dog. I take good care of him. If the pooch in the Benz was suffering I'd call the cops in a heartbeat. But there's no abuse going on here - just an overwrought woman whose passion has no connection to reality other than her need to indulge in some gratuitous self righteous anger. I turn back to my paper.

The door chimes. A pleasant looking lady comes in to order some takeout. As I'm writing down her order I notice the owner of the Mercedes has returned. His little girl's contentedly eating an ice cream cone. The dog tries to sneak in a lick. The girl giggles.

Suddenly Mrs. ASPCA runs out the front door almost running my takeout customer over.

"What's her problem?" Takeout Lady asks alarmed.

"I think she's seen one too many episodes of Animal Cops."

Ms. ASPCA goes up to the owner of the Benz and sticks her finger in his face. I can't hear what's she's saying through the window but it can't be good.

The man flushes with anger, but to his credit, makes a quick recovery. He talks to his accuser in what seems to be an even manner. The man's daughter looks frightened.

Meanwhile the little dog barks angrily at Mrs. ASPCA.

"I'll bet there's an interesting story behind all this," Takeout Lady remarks. I fill her in on the details.

"I love my dog too," she sighs, "but that lady's an idiot."

The Mercedes Benz pulls away. Mrs. ASPCA storms back inside.

"I want to leave Robert," she barks at her hapless mate.

"Let me pay bill first for Chrissakes," her husband growls. His wife returns outside to wait for him – her face contorted in a rictus of seething anger.

The husband asks for the bill. I ring it up for him and he pays it. He shakes his head.

"I'm sorry for the scene," he says quietly.

"What can I say? She likes animals," I reply.

The man smiles ruefully and leaves.

"That poor man," Takeout Lady says.

"Something tells me his wife loves her dog more than him," I reply.

"Well - you know what they call a female dog?" Takeout Lady asks grinning.

"Indeed I do madam," I chuckle

I hand the lady her order and wish her a nice day.

"Don't let this place go to the dogs," she laughs.

You ain't kidding," I reply.

Takeout Lady leaves. I turn back to my paper.

"Please God," I whisper, "no more lunatics today."

I hope He listens to me this time.

2005-07-01T09:30:00.000-04:00

Holiday Weekend

Hi everyone.

I'm sorry for the lack of posts this week. I've been really busy. My brother is getting married and tonight I'm dragging him out for his bachelor party. Of course, I have to wait tables the next evening! Working hung-over? That'll be fun. Pass the aspirin.

I'll be in no condition to write anything until Monday. Don't worry – I have plenty of stories. Some funny stuff happened at the Bistro this week.

Have a Happy July 4th Weekend!

2005-06-29T11:46:00.000-04:00

Smacking Saroya

It's a busy night. As I dash into the kitchen Saroya walks out with a plate of tiramisu in each hand. I'm not watching where I'm going. My shoulder catches her in the left eye.

"Owwww!" Saroya yelps almost dropping her desserts.

"I'm so sorry!" I apologize taking the plates out of her hands.

"My eye!"

"Let's go put some ice on it," I say pulling her over to the ice machine. I wrap a wet cloth around some ice and apply it to her eye socket.

"That hurt!" Saroya moans.

"Well it looks like you're ok. You didn’t smack into me hard. You're not going to get a black eye." I offer soothingly.

"My boyfriend is going to beat you up," Saroya whispers mischievously.

Saroya has been dating Armando, our assistant chef, for two years. They're moving into together next month. Armando is a BIG guy.

"Well," I sigh, "if I'm gonna get my ass kicked I might as well really pop you one,"

Saroya laughs, "You'd like that."

Saroya and I have worked together for four years. We're the top money makers at the Bistro. We've always had a mildly antagonistic, teasing, friendly relationship.

"You stay here with the ice and I'll go run your food." I say.

"Thanks."

I go into the kitchen and deliver Saroya's food to her tables. When I finish I explain to Armando what happened.

"No dinner for you," he says grinning.

"I'm sorry. It was an accident," I say.

"Don't worry about it."

Relieved that I've been spared physical retribution I go back to work.

A short while later I notice Saroya is fine. Her eye didn't swell up. I apologize again.

"Since you banged into me you're gonna have to pay the obstetrician bill," she pouts.

(Waiter turns to audience and grins.)

"If I banged into you Saroya and you needed an obstetrician, I think Armando would definitely kick my ass," I say.

"Huh?"

"Saroya an obstetrician is a doctor who delivers BABIES. An opthalmologist is an eye doctor. "

"Ooops!" Saroya says covering her mouth in embarrassment. She's originally from Honduras. While her English is excellent she still trips up on a few words.

"You don't want to mix those doctors up," I say.

"How do you say it? Optha…..?"

"Opthalmologist."

"Yes Armando would beat you up if I had to go to the obstetrician!"

"Everyday for nine months," I say ruefully

Saroya laughs evilly

"Be a beautiful baby though," I quip

Saroya mock slaps me on the arm, "You're a very bad man!" she gushes.

"No kidding," I reply.

Laughing softly to herself Saroya goes into the kitchen. Soon she and Armando are nuzzling sweetly in the corner.

Ah, I think to myself, love is blind. There's no opthalmologist in the world that can quantify what the heart sees. I look at Armando and Saroya. They're nice people. I hope everything works out for them. Who knows? Maybe they'll get married.

Then they'll really need an obstetrician.

2005-06-24T02:36:00.000-04:00

Gringo Cracker

We need a new dishwasher. Fluvio places an ad in the paper. We’re soon inundated with applicants.

Throughout the morning an onslaught of applicants trudge through the front door. They’re all Hispanic men. Hailing from places like Ecuador, El Salvador, and Mexico - eager to take the jobs Anglos turn their noses up at.

Most of the applicants don’t speak English. That’s a problem filling out the paperwork. My Spanish is terrible. That’s a shame since I’ve worked around Spanish speakers for several years. I should’ve learned. I ask Julia, one of our bi-lingual busgirls, to help me fill out the applications. It’s time consuming. I feel bad. Only one of these guys are going to get the job.

By noon the men stop coming. I’ve got a stack of applications. Flipping through them I notice most of the guy’s left only phone numbers. No addresses. Worried about La Migra I guess.

As I shuffle through the paperwork the door chimes. I look up. A young Hispanic looking guy is standing in the vestibule. Surly faced, pants hanging off his hips, he looks about twenty years old.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

No response.

“Can I help you?” I repeat.

The young man stares at me. He says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.

“Are you here about the dishwasher position?” I ask.

The kid looks at me angrily.

“What did you say?” he hisses.

“I was wondering if you were here about the job,” I ask.

“That’s fucked up man. Fucked up,” the kid mutters angrily.

Now I’m getting aggravated. Why’s this kid pissed off? Not a good way to look for a job.

“Listen, I don’t know why you’re getting mad at me…….” I start to say when the door opens.

In walk the kid’s parents. The mother’s white. The father’s black. This kid isn’t Hispanic.

Oh shit.

“Hey Dad this cracker thinks I’m here for a job!” the young man shouts.

“What?” the father says surprised.

Looking at me the kid barks, “You thought because I’m black I’m here to get a job - not to eat. Didn’t you?

I want to say “But I thought you were Hispanic” but think the better of it.

The father turns to me. Gulp.

“Sir, we’re looking for a new dishwasher and I’ve been talking to applicants all day….,”

“You’re an asshole,” the kid sneers.

“That’s enough William,” the father says sternly.

I feel my face getting red. “I apologize for my assumption sir,” I say contritely.

“Well I don’t accept your apology,” William pouts.

The mother puts two and two together. “He didn’t mean anything by it William,” she says.

“An honest mistake sir,” I entreat.

We’re all quiet for a moment. I pray for the earth to swallow me up.

“Well, I’m hungry. A table for three please,” the father says finally.

I grab some menus. “Right this way sir,”

I’d better not wait on this table. I get one of the other waiters to cover it. When I see Fluvio I explain what happened.

“Good move,” he says when I finish.

“I have no excuse. I screwed up.”

‘That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

“I know.”

Fluvio sighs and goes to the table to make nice nice. The kid’s still angry. The parents say they understand. They order their lunch.

The kid doesn’t miss an opportunity to glare at me. I hide behind the hostess stand.

I’m embarrassed. I think I made an honest mistake. Fifty Spanish guys came looking for jobs this morning. The kid, who turns out to be a BIG fifteen year old, looked like all the other guys searching for work. How was I to know he was black? Or is he white?

Oh man my head hurts.

“I’m not a racist. I’m not a racist,” I chant to myself, trying to reassure myself that my mind filled in the blanks with the information I had on hand. I made a false assumption. That’s all

I’m not a cracker.

Or am I?

When I was in the seminary I heard a story, maybe it’s apocryphal, about a white nun who worked in the inner city for forty years. Most of the people she ministered to were black. She was considered a saint.

She’s driving to work one day when some black guys jump in front of her car screaming at her to stop.

What does the nun do? She thinks they’re carjackers. She guns the engine trying to get away.

And ends up busting up her car in gigantic pothole.

The black guys waving her down weren’t trying to carjack her.

They were trying to save her.

The men pull the nun out of the car. She goes to the hospital. Luckily, her injuries aren’t serious.

The nun is shaken up and not by the accident. She’s shaken by the knowledge if those guys had been white she would have stopped the car. Forty years of service in the black community and she still had prejudice in her heart. It was an eye opening experience.

If I’m honest with myself – that’s exactly what happened with this kid.

I thought because he looked Hispanic he was looking for work – not lunch. So what if a hundred Hispanic guys came looking for a job? I was wrong. It was an assumption wrapped within a stereotype.

The kid? Well he’s a teenager. Teenagers are quick to anger and keen to expose hypocrisy. He got confused because he thought I was making an assumption based on his racial background

Right idea kid. Wrong ethnicity.

I take a deep breath. Despite my education and experience, my good intentions and egalitarian ideals - I struggle with race and ethnicty like everyone else.

I’m not perfect. Far from it.

The trio finishes their lunch. The kid walks stonily past me. The father and mother follow him.

“I’m sorry for what happened earlier,” I say.

The father graciously offers his hand. I take it.

“We all make mistakes,” he intones solemnly.

“Thank you sir,” I say appreciatively.

The mother smiles at me and they go outside. The father says a few words to his son. The kid heads back inside.

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” he says.

“Maybe I deserved it,” I reply.

The kid smiles.

“Maybe you did.”

“Good day sir,” I say.

I watch the family walk down the street. I shake my head. What a day.

The lunch shift ends. Ernesto makes us something to eat. I sit down with my compadres and dig in. I look around the table. These people have been like my family for five years.

And I’m still a gringo cracker.

But I’m trying.

The staff eats their lunch.

I eat my crow.

2005-06-21T15:18:00.000-04:00

Nunc Dimittis

Three priests walk into my bistro.

No, this isn’t a setup for some awful joke – three padres sit in my section. They’re dressed in civilian clothes but I make them instantly. Former Catholic seminarians can spot priests a mile away. Perhaps it’s the clothes; the standard off duty Dockers and conservative button down shirts. Maybe it’s the odor of sanctity about them. Perhaps it’s because they’re always slightly uptight in public. God forbid someone sees them acting out of character; tell a dirty joke or have too much to drink.

“Hello Fathers” I say merrily.

The eldest of the trio smiles broadly. They’re busted.

“How did you know?” he says.

“Once a Catholic…..” I shrug.

“Well you’re very perceptive.”

“Thanks Father.”

The two younger guys order gin and tonics. The eldest orders a club soda. I’ll wager he’s a recovering drunk - uses grape juice instead of wine at Mass. It would make sense. Alcoholism is an occupational hazard for priests.

Come to think of it, it’s an occupational hazard for waiters too.

The priests order off the menu. They say please and thank you. They’re dream customers.

After I deliver their entrees I stand off to the side and listen in on their conversation. They discuss their jobs in the verbal shorthand priests use when they talk to each other in public. Having been in that subculture I understand every word.

I listen to them talk shop. Not much has changed since I left the seminary in 1990. But then again people and their problems never change.

I walk to the back and pour myself a short espresso. Seeing these guys reminds me about the time I studied for the priesthood. I was eighteen when I joined up - an idealistic firebrand who gloried in debating the finer points of theology and philosophy.

But the priesthood, and ministry in general, is not about that stuff. Not really. It’s about dealing with the passions and fears of flesh and blood people in the here and now.

Angels dancing on the head of a pin dissolve into nothingness at the bedside of a dying child.

When looking death in the face things get very real very quickly……..

I’m twenty one and doing a stint as a chaplain’s aide in a large gritty urban hospital.

Part of my job is to bring Communion to people dying in the AIDS ward. Most of the people wasting away in their beds are uninsured junkies or prostitutes. This is long before antiretroviral therapy. AIDS is poorly understood. Some people still wear masks out of fear of contagion.

Many of the people dying in this place are wracked with guilt. Remember how people used to say AIDS was God’s punishment for sinners? That’s not an abstract concept for many of these people. A lot of them made disastrous life choices - the consequences of which are now, remorselessly, killing them.

I’m too young and emotionally under equipped to be any real help to these people. I just try and listen. That’s hard. Some patients scream at me, driven insane by secondary infections that are rotting their brains. Others are stonily silent – not wanting help from anybody. Occasionally people find peace but that's rare. They cry, they bargain, they pray. All the things people do as they rage against the dying of the light.

Maria is a drug addict. She got AIDS from years of mainlining heroin. Her baby, the result of exchanging sex for drugs, died of AIDS. She has no family or friends. She lies dying alone in a small room overlooking the hospital’s air conditioning plant. She hasn’t had a bath in days. The sweet sour smell of the unwashed is over powering.

“Hi Maria. I brought you Communion,” I whisper.

She looks at me weakly.

“Can I have some water?” she asks. She’s near the end.

“Sure.”

I look for her water bottle. There is none.

“Where’s your water bottle?”

“The nurses won’t let me drink water,” she says.

Must be something going on with her kidneys. Stupid doctors. The woman's dying.

“Let me go ask the nurse what we can do,” I say.

“Thank you.”

I walk to the nurse’s station. A large woman sits behind the desk yakking on the phone with what seems to her girlfriend. She looks at me with complete disinterest.

I wait patiently for her to finish. She doesn’t.

I wait some more.

“Pardon me, Maria wants some water. Can I give her some?” I interrupt.

“Can’t you see I’m on the phone?” the nurse yells.

“Yes but….”

“I’ll be with you when I’m finished!”

So I wait. The nurse ends her call.

“Now, what do you want?” she says angrily.

“Can I give Maria some water?”

“She’s on restricted fluids you can’t.”

“How about some ice chips then? I think she has dry mouth.” I ask innocently.

The nurse throws her hands up in the air in frustration. “Yeah, go get the girl some ice chips for what good it'll do her. You can get them on the next unit.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I go over to the neighboring unit and fill a Styrofoam cup with ice. I walk back to Maria’s room.

“Maria I got you some ice chips.”

No response.

“Maria?”

I walk over to the bed. She’s dead.

A wave of incredible anger sweeps over me. All this poor girl wanted was a drink of water. It turned out to be her last request

Even this small thing was denied her.

I crush the cup in my hands. Ice scatters on the floor. Hot tears run down my face. This girl had nothing – less than nothing. She died thirsty and alone.

It was then my innocence was taken.

I march out to the nurse’s station. The nurse is on the phone again. When she sees me a look of annoyance crosses her face. “Now wha….”

I slam my hand down on the counter. “MARIA IS DEAD!”

The nurse jumps out of her chair.

“DON’T YOU GIVE A SHIT YOU LAZY BITCH? SHE’S DEAD!” I bellow.

All hell breaks loose. A code is called. Security is called.

The attending shows up. There’s a do not resuscitate order. He pronounces Maria dead.

Security guards escort me to the pastoral care office where the Chaplin waits for me.

Instead of yelling at me for losing my temper he sits me down on his couch. He hands me a cup of coffee.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

I tell him everything.

A small smile crosses his face. “That nurse is a lazy bitch,” he says.

I laugh harshly.

“This is hard work son,” he says.

“I had no idea how hard.”

We’re quiet. I listen to the wall clock tick.

“When you were looking at Maria in that bed were you thinking about yourself?” the priest says suddenly.

The tears come again.

“Yes.”

“What were you feeling?”

“That I never want to be alone like that.”

“Do you feel that alone?”

A truth I had been hiding from myself came bubbling up from the depths.

“Yes,” I start to sob.

The priest gets up and sits next to me. He gently and puts his arm around me. I cry till I feel like I’m going to shake apart.

When I finish the Chaplain says, “If you’re honest - trying to help people makes you confront the darkness in yourself.”

“Yeah,”

“Maybe you should work on feeling alone,” he adds.

“Kind of tough when you want to be a priest,” I reply.

“Maybe you should think about that.”

I’ve given my heart and soul to being a priest for four years. I’m supposed to go abroad to study theology next year. Now, for the first time, I realize it isn’t going to work out.

“God doesn’t want you to be unhappy,” the priest says.

“Then why drag me here and put me through all this for nothing?” I whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“God’s a real asshole sometimes isn’t he?” I say sadly.

The priest leans back and smiles. “A gigantic asshole.”

We both laugh.

A few months later I quit. ………….

Now, fifteen years later, I look at the priests sitting in my section. I smile.

I’m no longer that young seminarian from long ago.

I changed. I grew.

I’m still growing.

But I’ll never forget the kindness and wisdom that priest afforded me on that terrible day.

I buy my priests some dessert.

“Thank you!” the eldest says as I set down the tiramisu.

“Just trying to shave time off in purgatory Padre,” I chuckle.

“Well, none for me,” the younger priest says throwing up his hands.

He’s about my age. I look him in the eye.

“Faith is tempered in the fires of desire.” I say.

He considers that for a moment.

“Well maybe just this once,” he says grabbing a spoon.

They polish off dessert and leave a nice tip. The night ends. I go home.

I drive home thinking about the priests, Maria, and my time in seminary. When I get home I pull an old leather book of the shelf.

It’s my old breviary from seminary. I still have it.

The binding is loose. The pages are worn. I open it.

The one priestly habit I never lost was to slip important things inside my breviary. The book is stuffed with funeral cards, birth announcements, and love letters; pictures of friends dead and gone.

I pull one picture out. It’s a Polaroid of my brother and I when we were teenagers. We look so awkward. He’s getting married next month. Soon I’ll put a photo of him and his lovely bride in this book – the repository of memories.

I turn the pages till I get to Night Prayer. There’s a prayer there called the Nunc Dimittis.

I silently read the words I chanted years ago.

“Lord let your servant go in peace;
your word has been fulfilled;

my own eyes have seen the salvation
which you have prepared in the sight of every people.

A light to reveal you to the nations
and the glory of your people Israel.”

I close the book.

Now, years later, God and I sometimes get along.

I’m strangely peaceful.

I turn off the light and go to bed.

2005-06-20T12:05:00.000-04:00

Gay Friendly

A young woman walks into the Bistro.

“Is your restaurant gay friendly?” she asks.

“Yes Madam,” I reply. I’ve gotten this question before.

“I want to take my partner out for her birthday. We only patronize gay friendly establishments,” she says.

Wow. Militant.

“You come to the right place,” I say.

“Are you listed in any directories as gay friendly?” she queries.

“Yes.” I tell her which ones.

Satisfied the woman asks, “Can I have a table for two this Saturday at 7pm?”

“No problem,” I say. I take down the lady’s information.

“Can I have that nice table in the window?” she presses, “it’s the first birthday we’re celebrating together and I want to make it special.”

I juggle some things in the computer. “The table’s all yours.”

“Can you tell the waiter it’s a special occasion?” she asks.

“Madam I’ll take care of you myself.”

The woman smiles, “Thanks for your help.”

“You're welcome.”

Saturday night rolls around. The ladies come in and sit at their romantic table. I pull out all the stops. I put a candle in the woman’s dessert and even sing happy birthday. They hold hands and talk quietly as they linger over liquors.

No one bothers giving them a second look.

I sigh contently.

Love is love. It comes in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. There’s not enough of it in the world.

The ladies signal for their check. I ring it up. The woman signs the bill. They get up to leave.

“Happy Birthday madam,” I say cheerfully as they depart.

“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” the woman gushes.

“It was my pleasure.”

After they depart I retrieve the bill folder from the table and open it.

On a ninety dollar bill they left me eight bucks.

Shocked I walk towards the back of the restaurant.

“Check this shit out,” I say waving the check in front of Louis.

“Ouch that hurts,” he says.

“I can’t believe it. I was so nice to them.”

“Was that the two lesbians?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures,” Louis replies, “Lesbians are horrible tippers.”

“That’s a tad stereotypical,” I counter.

“It’s true,” Louis shrugs, “I’m gay so I know.”

I don’t say anything. I’ve gotten good tips from lesbians before. I can’t figure out why these ladies were so cheap.

I sigh.

Assholes are assholes. They come in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. And there are more than enough of them in the world.

I close out the bill. I’m more hurt than angry.

We’re gay friendly. Not cheapskate friendly.

I’ll remember those ladies the next time around.

2005-06-17T11:05:00.000-04:00

Let me clear something up

In my post "Gristle" I alluded to the fact I was working on a book. That's true. However, it is still in the embryonic stage and I have not committed to anyone or anything. Judging from the comments and emails I've received I think some people are under the impression that the book will be hitting the shelves tomorrow. That is not the case.

I am talking informally to some very nice people who have taken a kind interest in my writing. Many thanks to them! I am currently trying to figure out how to write a book and cobble together a winning proposal. So you see folks - a book is still a long way off. I apologize if I didn't explain myself clearly. A book will happen eventually!

Thanks to all the readers for their words of encouragement and criticisms. It is appreciated!

Any ideas? Throw 'em my way! Got a cousin in the publishing biz? Let me know!

Oh, in response to a question - yes the comments section is priceless. I'm gonna have to figure a way to include some of the quips my readers have written!

Hope that clears things up! Have a nice weekend everybody.

2005-06-15T13:43:00.000-04:00

What’s a Yuppie?

I’ve gotten a couple of emails and comments from people who are upset by my use of the term “Yuppie.” So I’ve decided to explain what I mean when I employ that word. If you’re easily offended or have a shaky self image I suggest you skip this post.

Still here? Ok.

Let’s start with a definition. I searched around the web. This one from Nationmaster.com I like best.

"Yuppie," short for "Young Urban Professional," describes a demographic of people generally between their late twenties and early thirties. Yuppies tend to hold jobs in the professional sector, with incomes that place them in the upper-middle economic class.

The term "Yuppie" emerged in the 1980s as an echo of the earlier "hippies" and "yippies" who had rejected the materialistically-oriented values of the business community. Syndicated newspaper columnist Bob Greene is generally credited having coined the term "Yuppie" in one of his columns in the early 1980s.

Events and trends The 1980s marked an abrupt shift towards more conservative lifestyles after the momentous cultural revolutions which took place in the 1960s and 1970s and the definition of the AIDS virus in 1981. ...

The term is often used pejoratively, with an emphasis on the connotations of "yuppies" as selfish and superficial. ………………

That’s pretty good. Now here’s my definition – emphasis on pejorative.

“Yuppie,” Originally meant “Young Upcoming Urban Professional.” Now denotes a group of people, irrespective of age, politics, or class, who demonstrate the following characteristics.

1. If they ever worked a day in their life - they forgot all about it.

2. More interested in the quality of their chardonnay than the quality of their public schools.

3. Pore over the Sharper Image catalog and others like it as if it’s devotional reading. (Full disclosure: the Sharper Image catalog is on top of my toilet tank.)

4. Anyone who stopped drinking Merlot after seeing “Sideways.”

5. Take from the community but never give back. Yuppies think paying taxes fulfills their obligations as citizens. Most commonly seen in gentrified neighborhoods.

6. Over schedule their children’s lives and treat the little tykes as accessories or barometers of their own self worth.

7. Think money is the answer to everything.

8. Spiritual Masturbators. Pursue spirituality disconnected from any social responsibility. (Spiritual navel gazing while people are starving around you) They flock to gurus or new age con artists who recycle older traditions and tell them what they WANT to hear - not what they NEED to hear. If your spiritual guide, whatever his or her denomination, doesn’t say something every once in a while that pisses you off, – they’re only interested in your money!

9. Name branders. It has to be Grey Goose or Stella Artois. Now, I like that stuff too. But if all they have is Bud I can deal.

10. Treat people as if they’re disposable items. (Waiters, sex partners, colleagues, coat check girls, etc.)

11. Are only nice to people when they want something.

12. Never say “please” or “thank you.”

13. RUDE!

14. They always want the “big” wine glasses. Even for the cheap stuff. (Only waiters will understand that one.)

15. Expect the best table on Saturday night without a reservation.

16. Talk incessantly about money, what they have, and what they want.

17. Will sue, or threaten litigation, at the drop of a hat.

18. Know their stock portfolio better than their second wife or husband.

19. Their house is TOO clean.

20. Buy trendy books they never read.

21. Think NYC is the center of the known universe. It isn’t.

22. Assume anyone who didn’t finish college is stupid. (Hey, Bill Gates dropped out of Harvard!)

23. Think nice people are suckers.

24. Claim to be honest but cheat on their spouses, taxes, exams, and cynically take credit for other people’s ideas.

25. Know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Some caveats:

1. Just because a person’s rich or upwardly mobile doesn’t mean they’re a Yuppie. There are plenty of wealthy people who are kind, polite, generous, and take interest in other people and their community.

2. Ambition, competitiveness, and invention are good things so long as long as they are not pursued solely for their own sake.

3. We all, myself included, have indulged in the some of the behaviors and actions described above. Some of us are recovering Yuppies.

4. You don’t have to be rich to be a Yuppie. But it helps.

5. Yuppies can change and often do. Time is a brutal teacher.

So, in short I define a yuppie as a: rude, brand name dropping, self centered, impatient, spiritually stunted, obsessive catalog reading, materialistic, emotional dwarf who doesn’t care an iota how other people feel or think.

I hope that clear things up.

But if you read this and it pissed you off – too bad. I’m not here to blow sunshine off your ass.

Some people take the stuff they read in my blog WAY to personally.

2005-06-14T10:20:00.000-04:00

"Your Powers Are Weak Old Man"

I’m reciting the specials to a two top by the window. In typical yuppie fashion they don’t make eye contact. Sick of talking to these social misfits my eyes begin to wander. A pretty girl walks past the restaurant with her dog. I take an appreciative look.

I glance back at my table. Nope, still not looking at me. I look out the window again.

People of all shapes and sizes walk by on this hot day. I’m just getting around to the fish specials when I see HIM.

I blink my eyes.

No it can’t be.

Lumbering towards the restaurant, in all his dreadful majesty, is the infamous Dark Lord of the Sith.

Darth Vader.

“Excuse me one sec,” I say to my customers.

I run out the front door. Openmouthed I watch Vader approach. Funny -he looks a lot taller in the movies.

“Hi,” I say in amazement.

“Hello there,” Darth Vader replies pleasantly.

“Must be hot as hell in that suit.”

“You ain’t kidding," Vader says walking past me.

I stand and watch the Dark Lord go around the corner. The pretty girl with the dog comes next to me. She’s chuckling softly.

“Tell me I wasn’t seeing things,” I ask her.

“You weren’t,” she laughs.

“For a moment there I thought I had to go back on the meds.”

“No – you really saw Darth Vader walking down the street,” she says.

“He must be sweating bullets in that outfit.”

“I think he’s going to a costume party somewhere.”

“God I hope so.”

“You know those Star Wars fans….” the girl says shrugging.

I thank the girl and walk back inside.

Of course the yuppies are looking at me now.

“Sorry folks but Darth Vader just walked by.” I say happily.

The couple looks at me like I'm smoking crack.

“Well, that’s not something you see everyday,” I add weakly.

“We’re ready to order now,” the man says flatly.

I guess some people have no sense of humor.

The man and woman tell me what they want. Without saying thank you they dismiss me by carelessly thrusting their menus in my face. I feel a sudden hot spurt of anger.

I reach out with the Force and wrap it’s dark tendrils round the couple's throats. It would be fun to see them sputter and choke. I squeeze.

Nothing happens.

I mentally squeeze harder.

Still nothing.

The man looks at me quizzically. “We’re done here waiter,” he says.

“Very good sir,” I say disappointedly. Taking their menus I head to the back. Gerald, another waiter, is sitting by the POS computer mopping his brow. Even inside the Bistro the heat’s oppressive.

“You’ll never guess who I saw outside,” I say entering the order.

“Who?” Gerald asks.

“Darth Vader.”

“Really?” Gerald says, his face brightening.

“Must be a costume party somewhere.”

“Guy dressed up as Vader in this heat? He’s crazy.”

“I should have asked him if he wanted a job here,” I sigh.

“Can you imagine that? He’d choke the shit out of all the customers,” Gerald laughs.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you could do that? I wanted to mentally strangle those rude yuppies on table twenty-six. Too bad I can’t do it.

Gerald’s eyes widen. “Your powers are weak old man,” he says.

“Screw you Gerald.”

Gerald walks away laughing.

I angrily watch table twenty-six. Some people go out to eat because they’re hungry. Others eat out because they’re too lazy to cook. But some people frequent restaurants to indulge a false sense of superiority.

I really wish I could force choke those bastards.

Oh well.

I guess I have to spend more time in my meditation chamber.

Now where did I put my lightsaber? That'll fix 'em.

2005-06-13T10:16:00.000-04:00

I'm a Waiter - Not a Psychic Dietician

“You’ve got an outside table!” the hostess yells at me over the din.

I’m swamped. It’s Saturday night and my section’s hopping.

“Can someone else take it?” I beg

“It’s your turn,” the hostess barks while juggling two phones.

I sigh and head outside. Al Fresco diners, as I might’ve said before, are a pain in the ass.

This table proves to be no exception.

The middle aged couple starts out friendly. I smile. They smile. I rattle off the specials and they listen patiently. The man decisively orders the snapper.

I look at the man’s wife. Her lips are pursed. Consternation creases her brow.

“Can I help you make a selection?” I ask.

“Do you have anything light?”

Uh oh. Here we go.

“Madam?”

“I’m on a diet.”

“Which diet are you on?” I inquire. It’s a valid question.

“I don’t know. I just want to lose weight.”

Having known lots of women I can make a fair guess at what’s happening. This lady got on the scale today and didn’t like what she saw. She made one of those forgotten tomorrow resolutions to trim the fat and her anxiety's now bubbling to the surface.

“Might I recommend the tuna with the tomato mango salsa?” I say, “It’s light on the carbs.”

“I don’t like tuna.”

“Then might I suggest the chicken sautéed in white wine and artichoke hearts?”

“I don’t feel like chicken.”

The husband shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He looks at me. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I telepath him.

“Perhaps the steak?”

“I don’t eat meat.”

An off color comment comes to mind. Running out of options I suggest some pasta dishes.

“Well the Spaghetti Gamberi looks nice,” she says.

Ah, a personal favorite of mine - plump juicy shrimp with spaghetti in a spicy pepper oil and garlic sauce. Delicious.

“An excellent dish madam,” I reply.

“Ok, I’ll take that with no spaghetti.”

“Pardon?” I say surprised.

“Give me the dish with all the seasonings but without the pasta.”

I look through the window into the bistro. My other table’s drinks are getting low. I know I have to deliver entrees. I need to detach myself from this table NOW.

“Very well madam,” I say. I run inside, enter the order, and attend to my other, less troublesome, tables.

“The chef wants to talk to you,” another waiter says as she walks past me. I head into the kitchen.

“Spaghetti Gamberi without the spaghetti?” Armando says waving the ticket in disbelief.

“That’s what she wants.”

“Atkins?”

“Who knows? Just give it to her.” I say exasperatedly.

Armando shrugs and throws the shrimp in the pan.

A short while later I deliver the entrees. The man’s eyes widen with anticipation when he sees his snapper, lovingly prepared, with leeks, fresh tomato, and cannelloni beans.

I set the lady’s entrée down. Armando did a nice job with the presentation. He carefully arranged the shrimp in a bowl - artfully placing a sprig of basil on top.

“I can’t eat this,” the woman says instantly.

The husband groans.

“Is something the matter?” I ask warily.

“Look at this! The shrimp is swimming in oil! How am I going to lose weight eating this?’

“But…”

“This is not what I ordered,” she says petulantly.

Somewhere in our employee handbook it says, “The customer is always right.”

Now is not one of those times.

“Madam you asked for the spaghetti shrimp without the spaghetti,” I say.

“I didn’t want this – this oil!”

“Madam, you said you wanted the dish with all the seasonings and none of the pasta.”

“Well, it isn’t what I wanted,” she pouts.

“Marjorie I think you ordered it that way,” the woman’s husband says carefully.

The wife throws her husband a withering stare.

“I’m on a diet!” she says with a hint of menace.

What can I get you instead madam?” I ask plaintively.

“Just get me a plate of steamed broccoli.”

“Yes madam.”

I return the woman’s shrimp to the kitchen. Fluvio walks in after me.

“What the hell is that?” he says pointing to the dish.

“Spaghetti shrimp with out the spaghetti,” I say shrugging.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why?......”

“Lady on a diet,” I say simply.

Fluvio throws up his hands and leaves the kitchen. I feel for him. The Bistro is not a hospital kitchen. We try out best to accommodate people’s dietary requests but people like this lady are just off the wall. I can’t tell you how much profit Fluvio’s lost to finicky eaters over the years. But it’s probably enough to buy a small boat.

“Hey everybody!” I announce holding up the shrimp, “Got some free shrimp here. Help yourselves.”

The wait staff descends upon it like a pack of ravenous wolves. I’m lucky I don’t lose a finger.

The pickup bell rings. I deliver the lady her broccoli. She stares at it glumly.

“I can’t believe you don’t have anything for dieters,” she says reproachfully.

We do. But it’s too late to argue now.

“I took the shrimp off your bill sir,” I say turning to the husband.

“Thank you,” he says wearing an “I’m sorry for this shit” expression.

The woman picks at her vegetables. The man happily eats his fish. I go back inside.

I feel for the woman. I really do. I’ve got a few pounds to lose too. But that’s my responsibility – not a restaurant’s.

Restaurants specialize in combing salt, fat, and sugar into an astounding myriad of combinations. Why do you think the food tastes so good when you eat out? Oh sure, we have healthy stuff but they’re not big sellers. People come for the artery clogging stuff. The Bistro has probably provided enough patients to pay off some cardiologist kid’s college tuition.

If you’re on a diet, examine the restaurant’s menu before you go in. See if there’s something you can eat. Don’t assume the waiter is a psychic dietician. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.

And please - check your neuroses about food at the door.

2005-06-12T12:15:00.000-04:00

Hit and Run - Follow Up

A few months ago I wrote a post entitled "Hit and Run." It was about Jairo Gonzalez-Romero, a young immigrant restaurant worker in NJ who was killed by a hit and run driver.

After two months, a person has been arrested and charged in this case. The full story in appears here in the Bergen Record.

I was also gratified to see that $4000 has been raised to help cover Jairo's funeral expenses and send money home to his family. I know Waiter Rant readers have donated a portion of that money.

To all the readers who generously contributed to Jairo and his family you have my heartfelt thanks.

2005-06-11T13:05:00.000-04:00

Pay Pal

I took the PayPal Donation button down temporarily. It was compromising my anonymity. As soon as I figure a work around it'll be back. Don't worry!

Many thanks to the kind persons who dropped some cash in my jar the past year. It was, and still is, very much appreciated!