Tuesday, October 05, 2010

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Part 1

I was a waiter in Los Angeles for many years as I tried to get my career started. Many people in this town take the same path because it allows you flexibility to chase "the Dream." Funny thing is, Food Servers are a very different breed out here. They aren't the Denny's employee,(the elder lady with a hairy mole on her face) they are mostly artistic, creative and intelligent college graduates. They are usually brighter than most of the morons they wait on. (But don't tell that to the idiot who can't pronounce Filet Mignon.)

This posting goes out to all the food service industry workers and something that has gone through the mind of anyone who has ever waited a table. (Maybe not as off the beaten track as my thoughts, but, hell, I'm strange.)

I killed a guy last night. Why? Because he pissed me off, so, the Motherfucker deserved it. He had the balls, the audacity, to sit in my section, bitch about how his wine was no good, but the service was excellent. Oh and then leave me an eleven percent tip! He really didn't deserve to live. I don't want or need my tip in compliment form and don't need it through flattery either, because neither of them will pay my fucking rent! I want cash, cold, hard cash. We're talking 18 to 25 percent of the bill, and then I'll be happy. But if I don't get that, think what will happen...or just imagine what that bloody carcass at the bottom of the dumpster behind my place of employment looks like.

So this guy, if he can ever be referred to by that title, instead of asshole, sits at my table with his bitch of a date. He's trying to act like a big shot and orders a bottle of White Zinfandel. White Zin! What kind of guy orders that crap? Fuck, might as well order a wine cooler, or a Spritzer, or some frickin’ Kool Aid! White Zin is the drink of eighteen year olds or white trash when they can't find the box of wine or old ladies who are searching for a Blush instead of a Rose'.
So I bring the bottle to the table and he starts all that bullshit wine connoisseur crap. The smelling, the swirling around in the glass, followed by some sniffing and then swishing around the mouth action like it's Listerine. Hey, dickhead, it's fucking Beringer! It's not LaCrema or Sebastiani or Ferrari Carano or some other nice California Coastal crap. It's not Red Zinfandel, Cabarnet, Merlot, Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay. It's fucking White Zinfandel! Anyway, after his display and presentation of his so-called wine expertise, which the whole time impressed his date, a half-witted, cheap shoe wearing, ugly polyester bloused, too much make up wearing troglodyte, he turned to me and said it lacked aroma and a dry taste. Not to reiterate, but once again, it's “White Fucking Zinfandel!” It isn't supposed to have a nice bouquet, and sweetness doesn't go hand and hand with dryness!

So he rambles on spouting misinformed and uneducated crap about his high brow winery wisdom (who knows maybe he had recently seen the movie, "Sideways") and asks if he can get another brand or another vintage. First off, vintage doesn't apply to this swill he thinks is classy, and secondly, hello, we don't have another brand. This isn't Sizzler or TGIF Fridays! We don't cater to pink wine chugging Morons!
I suggest a Chardonnay, but he has some excuse why he doesn't like whites. I honestly think he didn't like them because of the prices of the bottles. This motherfucker acted like he had champagne taste, but was sporting a beer pocket book. Finally he decides to keep the original bottle of wine, but acts like I had something to do with the whole problem. Hey, jerk off, lighten up! I'm not the person who decides what our alcohol inventory will be. He really acted somewhat smug and all I could think was “Fuck him!”

To be continued...

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