You Asked For It – Some of my Favorite “Guests” at the Restaurant

So Trisha mentioned that I should write about the boom box story so her friends don’t think she’s lying.  I had no idea what she was talking about and had to ask her.  Apparently, it was a story I told her not long after I lost my patience with waitressing, which was appoximately three days after I completed my training.  I must have blocked it, and so many others, from my memory for fear of lashing out at the next person I see eating shrimp.

But once I remembered that one, they all started coming back to me, like that scene in “Ghost” where Whoopi Goldberg has all the people trying to communicate with their loved ones.  But instead of harmless dead people, I was assuaged with visions of, “Miss!  Miss!  Hey Bartender!  Hey Blondie!!   Where’s my shrimps!  This ain’t fried hard enough!  I want raspberry lemonade!  It’s my birthday, this is free, right?”  So rather than tell all of these stories, which would most likely result in my drinking very, very heavily tonight, I’ll just give you the highlights of my favorites.

— The boombox people.  Came in at exactly 10:55 on a Saturday when we close at 11:00.  Don’t EVER, EVER do this unless you are really going to tip your server lots of money.  I had already cleaned my section, which was closed.  Unfortunately for me, the only place this lovely foursome wanted to sit was in that particular section.  The reason?  Because it was in a little alcove type area, kind of separated from the other jerks who wouldn’t leave.  Why, you ask?  So they could play their BOOM BOX and have room to have a little dance party until one in the morning, in between sending me to fetch them more water.  They left me a whole two dollars!!  Totally worth it.

— “Well, I want raspberry lemonade and I know that he wants red Kool Aid.”  Stop.  Stop.  First of all, we don’t have raspberry lemonade, just like the last four times you came in and pissed me off.  Second of all — WTF?  What restaurants do you usually dine in?  Cause the last time I checked, even Chucky fucking Cheese doesn’t serve Kool-Aid.

— “Miss!!  Scuse me!  Miss!!  I didn’t get a pineapple with my drink, and she got a pineapple with her drink.  Why didn’t I get a pineapple?  Can I have two, since you forgot?”  You know what?  You’re 40.  You don’t get prizes with your food.
— The people who wanted all of their drinks for free because once they were almost done with them, a fly landed on the glass and apparently walked around inside of it.  Also requested that I stand by with a flyswatter in case it came back so as not to disturb their lunch.  Sure, a now homicidal waitress who gets paid three dollars an hour and has to wear a bow tie  glowering at your table with a weapon should enhance your dining experience.

— “I want raspberry lemonade,” after I’ve told the previous four patrons at her table that no, we don’t FUCKING have raspberry lemonade.  “Oh, then I’ll have blueberry lemonade.”  I can’t go further into that one cause I’m going to get a beer to calm myself.  Blood pressure, up.

— The people who told the table next to them that they would beat the hell of out of their kid if they spilled orange juice.  The child in question still didn’t have teeth.

— The two ladies, and I use that term loosely, that sent me back not once, not twice, not three times, not four times, not FIVE times, not SIX TIMES, but seven times while they each alternately changed their drink order each time I brought a fresh one to the table, then one of them told me that her french fries weren’t fried hard enough and she would like a brand new batch to be made especially for her.  While the special fries were being made, she flagged me down again to tell me, “You know what?  While I’ve been waiting for my fries, my shrimps have gotten cold.”  This was the night that I went to my manager and told him that if I went back to that table, I would be fired within the next three minutes.  He took care of them, and remade the shrimps and the fries no less than three times.  HATE.

— The “men” that ordered an apple martini and then sent it back because it was too strong.  Look, Sally, if you can’t handle three apple pucker shots, perhaps you should stick to juice.

— Last but certainly not least, and this happened in several variations thoughout my stunning waitressing/bartending career, was the guy who, after his meal, came up and thanked me profusely, telling me what a great waitress I was, they so enjoyed themselves, told the manager that I was such a great server and they just loved me, then pressed a ten dollar bill in my hand to cover the tip on his $360.00 bill.  Yeah, thanks, asshole.  Your thank you will keep me almost as warm and fed as the $150.00 I would have made if I hadn’t gotten stuck waiting on your twelve person party for four hours on a Saturday night.  That will put almost as much gas in my car as I need to get home!  Thanks, SIR.

Off for more beer.  My head is starting to do that spinny thing again.

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Posted on 06/01/2008, in waitressing. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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