Is It Just Me, Or Did I Have A Decent Night?
No true assholes, anyway. I had a couple of shitty tippers but at the end of the night, others had made up for it. Oh, and nevermind the fact that I had to work with the woman that everyone at work considers to be the bane of their existence (at least within the workplace). We’ll call her G. And the fact that I got one of the tables that every server there hates to wait on.
G – which I suppose could stand for “golden child” considering that that’s what she pretty much is to the owners – does no wrong. Well, she does wrong – the owners just never say anything to her about it. I’m not even sure why the owners like her so damn much. Tonight she proclaims that she can get away with whatever she wants because she’s their favorite worker. Even if it means compromising food safety – which I don’t like at all. Luckily we have a manager – we’ll call him A – who doesn’t let that shit fly, even if he has to go back and redo her work to make the food safe to eat. See, she usually works days and dayshift and night shift at my workplace do things totally differently. Day shift is well-known for not caring about presentation nor food safety. (You can’t stick a hot metal container full of food into the fridge and expect it to cool down quickly enough. You just can’t. Food poisoning, anyone?) Anyway, I shouldn’t really bitch too much about G, considering that she’s a cook and not waitstaff and therefore, I don’t have to deal with her nearly as much as the other kitchen staff have to. Oh, except when she thinks she can tell waitstaff what to do. Fuck you – A is the manager, NOT you (even though you’ve been known to say that he’s not one, although he IS). What I have a right to bitch about is G trying to send food out that I wouldn’t feed to a wild animal, let alone another person. A makes sure everything looks nice before he lets it go out, but if you work dayshift, you’re going to be taking people plates that have juice running all over them and possibly saucy fingerprints along the side. (It’s not really that hard to take a cloth and wipe the edges of the plate before sending it out.) Trust me, you’ll hear more bitching about G in the future – especially considering that I work with her again tomorrow. What fucking fun.
Then we get to my other bitchfest. I know I said tonight was actually a decent night – most of my tables were at least decent tippers (some of them downright damn good tippers). But I had this one table, and I see them semi-regularly, so I dread waiting on them. (These are the type of people who think three dollars is completely acceptable on an $50.00 bill. Yeah.) Now mind you, I don’t let it show that I hate waiting on them, and the guy is actually pretty nice. It’s the woman and the kids I can’t stand because they’re so fucking picky. The last time I waited on them, the boy asked for ham in his salad….um, we don’t have a fucking chef salad on the menu, but I got a piece of ham from the kitchen (that we use for club sandwiches and grilled ham & cheese sandwiches), chopped it up, and happily served his salad with ham. (Along with up-charging an extra dollar for the addition of the ham. We charge an extra dollar for extra meat on anything, the salad was no exception since it usually doesn’t come with any meat anyway. What? Meat isn’t exactly cheap.) Luckily, this time he didn’t ask for the ham, but he asked for no cheese on the salad, and his mother asked for only lettuce, croutons, and bacon bits. The salad doesn’t usually come with bacon bits either, as we only use those on our larger salads….but it’s a negligible addition, so whatever. The man orders a full rack of ribs, another lady joining them orders chicken alfredo, the usual woman orders a steak, and the boy orders both a kid-size rib and a BLT. These people are the type of people that don’t tip well and I even sensed it the first time I ever waited on them. After you’ve been a server so long, sometimes you can just sense if someone’s going to tip you well or not (or tip you at all, for that matter). After their meal was over, I went to clean the table, and discovered that they had left me five dollars on an $80.00 bill. No surprise, but I thought I’d at least see maybe eight or nine bucks. Thanks for being so appreciative of my hard fucking work, waiting on you jackwads who run me like a dog, not to mention sometimes treat me like one. And there’s no recourse when it comes to those types of people, which I think is what gets me the most – I have to stand there and smile and treat them like gold, all the while knowing I’ve probably lost money by serving them.
But at the end of the night, it wasn’t so bad. I walked out with a decent chunk of change (compared to the usual amount, anyway), and I managed to be honestly cheery to just about every table that I served. I wasn’t cheery because I knew I had to be, I was cheery because I actually wanted to be – and there’s a big difference.