Before customers started arriving yesterday, a co-worker's father showed up for a salad and this was weird because I was under the general impression that she had hatched from an egg because she is just one of those mythical types of creatures to me who is always laughing and never seems to get really irritated with the customers and has the Holy Glow about her that I don't know if it is laughing gas (seriously, she laughs all the time) or marijuana or because she goes to Church.
Anyhoot, you would think that would be a good omen, but oh no, we had to have a butthole issue over some broccoli.
So, this dude comes in wearing a black leather jacket, smelling of pachooli (only not that bad) with an accent like maybe he's from Australia. Cool. He's by himself and he orders a whopping 15 OZ RIBEYE which is just unheard of in these parts of ghetto-ass getchye-self a chicken tenderville. So, double cool. He orders it well done (eh, not so cool) with broccoli and I forget what else.
I wait the forever-and-a-day it takes to cook a 15 OZ RIBEYE well done, and when it's finally ready, the broccoli that the kitchen has heaped onto the plate is yellow and wilty and just looks nasty. It looked like broccoli that had eaten itself then got sick and puked on itself. I ask the kitchen about it, and they blame it on Dirty Bastard, the kitchen manager. I overheard Dirty Bastard recently claim that he was moving up in the company as the
So I travel, plate of 15OZ RIBEYE in hand, back to the office, to show our general manager, who takes one look and tells me to get them some new damn broccoli, although she doesn't say damn broccoli, that's me using poetic license to make the story more interesting. So I go to the kitchen to get some more broccoli and then, since I've got to wait on the broccoli, I take those extra minutes that are cutting into my Speed of Service that the company is always bitching about to go have a word of prayer with Dirty Bastard.
I confront Dirty Bastard as he is cutting into a cow carcass, and he claims that it wasn't him. Shyeah right. So I go back to kitchen again, and now Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager and Kitchen are pointing at each other like a couple of two year olds but I know that Dirty Bastard was the one behind it, if not directly, indirectly because he is a Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager Nazi. 15 OZ RIBEYE is being dressed with new broccoli at this point and the general manager comes out to handle Dirty Bastard while I take Pachooli Australian Leather Coat Guy his damn steak with his damn broccoli that he has waited forever to get. The guy left me $10.00 off of a $20-something-dollar check. Bless him.
Also, I had another table yesterday leave me $7.00 off of a $20-something-dollar check. Those kinds of tips make up for the shit tips, let me tell you. Bless those people! They are more than pulling their weight in this thing we call humanity/civilization.
Later, this woman comes in with her two kids. They order a plate of chicken tenders to share. Lord. I bring the chicken tenders out with the requested dressings, but the woman's daughter gets all bent out of shape because apparently she wanted a different sauce. She's obviously mad about it, but when her mom asks her if she wants a different sauce, she snaps back, rolling her eyes, "It doesn't MATTER." Me being the waitress, and me being the type of waitress I am, I try asking the girl myself, "Do you want me to get you something else, sug?" (Short for "sugar," pronounced "shuug," I've started talking like a 64-year-old woman with blue eyeshadow and varicose veins since I've started waiting tables at this restaurant - I think it's something that just happens without your control.) and the little bitch turns on ME, rolls her eyes at ME, and calls out, arms crossed across her chest, "It doesn't MATTER."
Well! Fine, then. Shug.
Then. THEN, the mom secretly points out a coupon to me. It's a coupon for a fucking dessert. Excuse me? You're going to get that rude little snot a reward for bitching out the waitress? Nice.
I shouldn't expect any less though - the woman had been ordering me around like a pro from the moment her ass hit the booth. It took all I could muster from the depths of my soul to fake any sort of waitressly (pleasant, subservient) demeanor when I sat that dessert down on the table in front of them, I'll tell you that.
Later, the general manager caught me leaning on a ledge, working my pen across my tablet.
She says (in her chipper way) - "Are ya doodlin'?"
I say (in my way) - "I'm trying to go to my happy place."
Did I mention that it was DAY ELEVEN without a day off?
There's an incident with a trash can that happens later, but I'll save that for another post.