Tales From “The Annoying Bar & Grill”: The “Tip Slip”

---

No doubt many of you have heard of the “nip slip” made famous by none other than Janet Jackson (and repeated frequently by other attention-grabbers) . In the restaurant business we have something called a “tip slip”. It is the copy of your credit card receipt that is meant to be left AT the restaurant FOR the server. I have very little experience in the area of the “nip slip”, but I can speak with some authority on the “tip slip”.

I can do next to nothing about celebrities exposing their nipples either accidentally or on purpose, but I would like to take steps toward educating the general public about taking the wrong copies of their credit cards home with them. Do what you want with your nipples, people, but I am here to beg of you to PLEASE LEAVE THE “TIP SLIP” AT THE RESTAURANT! Please.

Some of you or, as I like to think of you, the dopey few, do this because you are not paying attention. I do not call you something worse because I, too, made this mistake once as a result of allowing my mind to wander and my hand to pick up the wrong copy of the credit card slip following what was a wonderful meal at a very nice restaurant.

The difference between me and the countless other dopes that do this is that I understood the consequences of my actions. For any of you that might find yourself in a similar situation, there is a way to rectify it. It is fairly simple and requires only the use of a telephone. Please avail yourselves of this handy piece of equipment in the event that you discover that you have done the dopey thing and taken the wrong copy (or both copies) of your credit card slip when you next dine out.

The minute I got home and realized what I had done I called the restaurant and confessed to being an idiot of the highest order — I will admit to having blamed too high an intake of tira mi su for my momentary senselessness — and made sure that the server was given the tip that I had meant to leave for him — the one that was on the copy that I had mistakenly taken with me while reeling from a sugar high.

Had I not done what I did, my server (who I in no way held responsible for the escalation of my blood sugar) would have been out a very generous tip. And that, my friends, would have just been wrong. And, considering my line of work, some very bad karma.

It is disappointing that while I am a big believer in karma and, as a result of my superstitious tendencies and my firmly held belief that the universe is always hard at work seeking stasis, I, myself, constantly get screwed over by the dopey few or, worse, the cheapskates that have learned to play the system and deliberately take both copies (or leave the unsigned, tipless copy for this tough-out-of-luck server).

There exists no remedy to the server by his or her employer when, whether by mistake or by design, you go on your merry way without leaving the proper copy of  your receipt for the person who broke their ass waiting on you for two hours of his or her life. None.

Restaurant managers and owners do not conclude that you were meant to get a tip. They will not add anything to your credit card slip after you leave without your consent. You either have to call or return to the scene of your stupidity to resolve the issue. The onus is upon you, the person who enjoyed a five-course meal and seven hot water with lemon refills.

Please, for the love of all that is holy, make every attempt to erase your error. Because, and I do not know if you know this, when a diner leaves no tip it actually costs the person who rendered the service money to have waited upon you. Yes. That is true. And, yes, it is perfectly legal.

The people that are tipped out by your server — bartenders, buspeople, etc. — are tipped out based on the server’s total sales, not on the tips that they received throughout the course of the shift. The federal government also figures what they are owed based on this same information. In other words, everyone gets their pound of flesh except the server who you held hostage an hour after closing because you and your long-lost best friend, Sally, who “hadn’t seen each other in YEARS!” just could not wrap your heads around the fact that lights on/music off meant that you should pay your check and skedaddle.

The fact that you held on to the check book and chose to skedaddle in the one moment that your server went into the kitchen to roll her eyes, bang her head on the counter, and lament the fact that you needed to get a clue makes me slightly suspicious about whether or not your leaving the wrong copy was purposeful, but I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and place you into the category of the “dopey few”, but please, please, take a moment to call the restaurant and fix your mistake.

While I am very happy that you and Sally found each other again through the modern wonder of social media, I would think better of the both you and be oh, so very grateful, if you could please call and make sure that I get the gratuity that I earned (on your $110 check!). I am sure you meant to leave it for me, right?

If, indeed, it was deliberate, perhaps Sally stealing your husband is in your future. (Frankly, I wouldn’t put such a thing past Sally. She seemed less enthusiastic about the rekindling of your friendship than did you. Plus, I overheard her asking quite a few questions about John.) While I certainly don’t wish this upon you — or, to be fair, upon John (Sally did seem like kind of a bitch) — the universe does have a way of righting wrongs.

For the sake of your marriage, I urge you to do the smart thing. Use the telephone.

Save the Introductions!

---

Recently I have noticed an “uptick” in folks introducing themselves to me when I come to the table. They must have read somewhere — probably on the internet — that this is a sure-fire way to create an atmosphere of instant camaraderie — one that will result in better service. Honestly, I just find it strange — and uncomfortable. Frankly, when people do this sort of thing, it makes me less inclined to want to interact with them or to give them better service.

The other day I had a table do this whole “Hi, I’m Bob. This is my wife, Mary, and my daughter, Alice. How are you today?” thing. My immediate reaction to this odd behavior is always to mumble something like, “Fine. I’m fine.” You’ll notice I do not add, “And you? How are you today?” Because I already know how you are today — and possibly every other day of your life — you’re weird.

I try very hard not to make any sort of eye contact with people like this, so as to discourage what I consider to be “too much, too soon” in the familiarity department. I always want to run for the hills before they try to tell me about Grandma — a woman who wisely opted out of lunching with these weirdos today. It is entirely possible that she used the old “my gout is acting up” excuse, but I would lay odds on the fact that she isn’t in attendance because she, too, finds them wacky. Go, Grandma!

This table didn’t want to talk about Grandma, though. No. They had something even better — and, yes, odder — up their sleeves. They showed me a picture of their dog. I, very seriously, thought to myself, “What the fuck is this about?”

It was apropos of nothing. I mean, no one — definitely NOT me — had mentioned anything even remotely canine-related prior to “Bob” pulling out his phone and showing me pictures of the stupid dog. I wanted to ask them what it was about me that made them think, “Oh, she looks like she would like to see a picture of our dog!” I will admit to taking a close look at the photo, which was mainly to see if I bore any sort of resemblance to “Fido” (or whatever his name was). Because that I reminded them, in some way, of their dog was the only reasonable explanation that I could come up with as to why a grown-ass man had decided that a perfect stranger might be interested in his personal life.

The dog was some sort of white, fluffy thing. Truly, and maybe I was just fooling myself, I did not see any resemblance between me and Fido whatsoever. (Okay, maybe a little around the eyes, but that was where it ended!) As intrigued as I was as to what prompted this guy to look at me and immediately whip out pictures of a fluffy, white dog, I refrained from asking him (or Mary or Alice) anything that was not business-related. I was afraid that doing so, engaging them in any kind of conversation at all, might lead them to think that I cared or, worse, to show me images of their parakeet, their cat or, who knows?, an area rug.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon — the height of the lunch rush. They were surrounded by tables that any idiot could see all belonged to me. They even commented that it was “pretty busy in here today”. So, yeah, they knew. And, yet, even though they could clearly see that I was busy, they thought that wasting my time with introductions and pictures of their dog was going to endear them to me?

It’s so wacky. It really is. The worst part, though, is that I had to stand there as they squandered my valuable time. I also have to pretend to care when I run up against people like this — about Grandma, the dog, the cat, or the area rug. This behavior is not even close to endearing, it is maddening.

I swear that people like this are frequent restaurant guests because they think that, as they pay our salaries, we have to put up with this kind of bullshit. I’ll tell you what? Tip me less, but keep your introductions (and the snapshots of your pets) to yourselves.

IF I HAD GIVEN IN TO THE MADNESS

Did your children read those adorable Laura Numeroff books when they were little? There was a whole series of them. One was “If You Give a Moose a Muffin”. I think there was one about giving a mouse a cookie. Do you know the ones I mean? Fangette’s favorite was “If You Give a Pig A Pancake” — I, too, was partial to that one. We always laughed and laughed at the dancing, tutu-wearing pig. She was very cute!

Not as cute, but hopefully just as funny, is the adult version that I was inspired to write following a horrendous couple of shifts over at “The Annoying Bar & Grill”. It is my sincere hope that should Laura Numeroff get wind of this that she, too, will laugh and laugh. Truly, that is my hope. It is not my intention to piss her off, as I am certain she is a very nice woman.

It seemed, over the past few days, that it was the intention of almost every one of our “guests” — none of whom could be classified as “nice” — to piss me off, to annoy the ever-loving crap out of me, to drive me round the bend. Luckily, I have more fortitude than to have let them. Plus, there would be far too many negative consequences to my losing my job — none of which would have included a delightful little pig pirouetting on top of a couch covered in maple syrup.

---

IF I HAD GIVEN IN TO THE MADNESS

To the guy who condescendingly tells me each and every time that he enters the building that he is “in a rush”, but then proceeds to sit for almost an hour texting and watching videos on his phone or yukking it up with his equally idiotic co-worker, I would have like to have said:

YOU, SIR, ARE FULL OF SHIT. Yes, you heard me correctly. SHIT! Do you think I don’t remember you and your antics? Have I given you some indication that I am senile or in some way addle-brained? Or is it just that you think, because you are wearing a shirt and tie and have a “real” job, that servers are stupid? My money is on the latter.

If I had said that, if I had allowed myself to be angered by his treatment of me, I would have lost my job. If I had lost my job, my kid would have to drop out of college.

To the hoodie-clad bar patrons who fancied themselves some type of gangsta rap stars, I would have liked to have said this:

YOU NEED TO LEARN SOME MANNERS AND, WHILE YOU’RE AT IT, YOU OUGHT TO BRUSH UP ON YOUR MATH SKILLS, TOO. THREE AMERICAN DOLLARS ON $130 CHECK IS NOT JUST INSULTING, BUT SHOULD RESULT IN A GOOD BITCH-SLAPPING. WOULD YOU SHORT YOUR DRUG DEALER 12.5%? NOT IF YOU WANTED TO STAY ALIVE, YOU WOULDN’T.

If I had said that, I would have lost my job. If I had lost my job, my kid would have to drop out of college, and, as a result, might become a drug dealer herself or, worse, a bartender.

To the woman who got loaded and weepy on two drinks and who fancied herself my new best friend, I would have like to have said this:

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, HONEY. YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE. YOU EITHER CAN’T HOLD YOUR LIQUOR OR THAT TRIP TO THE BATHROOM WASN’T JUST TO EMPTY YOUR BLADDER. YOU ARE TOO OLD FOR THIS STUPIDITY. IF YOU WANT TO LIVE TO SEE 60, I KNOW OF A GOOD REHAB FACILITY. THEY’RE ALWAYS OPEN. I CAN CALL THEM RIGHT NOW. I WILL ACTUALLY BE YOUR FRIEND IF YOU GET SOBER. HOW’S THAT FOR AN OFFER?

If I had said that, I would have lost my job. If I had lost my job, my kid would have to drop out of college, and, as a result, might become a drug dealer herself or, worse, a bartender. If she were to become a bartender, she might become as bitter and crusty as her mother.

To the several customers who thought that I was enjoying their company nearly an hour after we had closed our doors, I would like to have said this:

I SPEND ENOUGH TIME HERE. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT “WORTH MY WHILE” TO REMAIN HERE FOR ANOTHER MINUTE. THAT CARROT YOU ARE DANGLING IN THE FORM OF HOW WELL YOU ARE GOING TO “TAKE CARE OF ME” WHILE YOU’VE BEEN NURSING YOUR DRINKS AND TELLING ME STUPID STORIES FOR THE LAST FORTY-FIVE MINUTES IS NOTHING BUT BULLSHIT. I’LL TELL YOU WHAT — I’LL GIVE YOU TEN BUCKS TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE. I THINK THAT’S VERY GENEROUS OF ME. DON’T LET THE DOOR HIT YOU ON THE ASS!

If I had said that, I would have lost my job. If I had lost my job, my kid would have to drop out of college, and, as a result, might become a drug dealer herself or, worse, a bartender. If she were to become a bartender, she might become as bitter and crusty as her mother. If she were to become as bitter and crusty as her old mother, she might take up blog writing.

To the nincompoop who claimed to “own a restaurant” and, therefore, “knew” that he was being “hoodwinked” by our cuts of steak, I would have liked to have said this:

YOU DON’T OWN A RESTAURANT. IF YOU DO, EVER DID, OR HOPE TO, IT IS FAILING, HAS FAILED, OR WILL FAIL. BECAUSE YOU ARE AN IDIOT. YOU WOULDN’T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A FILET AND A SIRLOIN IF IT HIT YOU IN THE FACE. A PORTERHOUSE IS A T-BONE. IT SIMPLY HAS A LARGER FILET THAN A T-BONE. THAT’S THE DIFFERENCE. A PRIME RIB AND A RIBEYE ARE ALSO THE SAME CUT OF MEAT. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE IS IN THEIR PREPARATION. ONE IS SLOWLY ROASTED, THE OTHER IS GRILLED. I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU WHICH IS WHICH, AS A RESTAURANT OWNER, YOU SHOULD KNOW.

YOU HAVE NOT BEEN BAMBOOZLED. YOU ORDERED INCORRECTLY. IT HAPPENS. YOU WERE SIMPLY MISTAKEN. GET USED TO IT. I’M CERTAIN A PERSON SUCH AS YOURSELF WILL BE WRONG AGAIN IN THE NOT TOO DISTANT FUTURE. EVERYONE MAKES MISTAKES. THE PROOF OF THIS CAN BE HAD BY TAKING A LOOK AROUND AT YOUR TABLEMATES. THEY ARE, RIGHT NOW, THINKING HOW MISTAKEN THEY WERE WHEN THEY MADE THE FATEFUL DECISION TO DINE WITH THE LIKES OF YOU.

If I had said that, I would have lost my job. If I had lost my job, my kid would have to drop out of college, and, as a result, might become a drug dealer herself or, worse, a bartender. If she were to become a bartender, she might become as bitter and crusty as her mother. If she were to become as bitter and crusty as her old mother, she might take up blog writing. If she takes up blog writing she might get some “big ideas” about herself — ideas that may lead her to believe that there is something better out there for her.

To everyone everywhere who has never done this job, but who thinks they can make helpful suggestions as to how those of us who do it might improve our performance, I’d like to say is this:

THANKS! NOW, HOW’S ABOUT YOU GIVE ME ACCESS TO YOUR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT AND I WILL COME THERE ON MY DAY OFF WITH PAD AND PENCIL IN HAND AND PROCEED TO MAKE RECOMMENDATIONS FOR AN INDUSTRY THAT I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT. I HOPE IT’S SOMEWHERE EXCITING, LIKE AN OPERATING THEATER. I’VE ALWAYS FANCIED MYSELF A SURGEON. HELL, I CAN TRUSS A CHICKEN LIKE NOBODY’S BUSINESS! OR MAYBE AN AIRPORT. YEAH. I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT THERE MUST BE A BETTER WAY TO DIRECT PLANES THAN HAVING A GUY STAND ON THE TARMAC WITH A COUPLE OF GLOW STICKS.

I’LL BET THERE ARE REASONS THAT THINGS ARE DONE IN A CERTAIN WAY IN AN OPERATING ROOM OR AT AN AIRPORT, THOUGH. I’M CERTAIN I WOULD BE TOLD WHAT THOSE REASONS ARE AS I WAS ACTING AS AN EFFICIENCY EXPERT IN YOUR CHOSEN FIELD. WELL, GUESS WHAT? THERE ARE REASONS THAT WE DO CERTAIN THINGS A CERTAIN WAY HERE, TOO. I KNOW IT DOESN’T SEEM LIKE ROCKET SCIENCE OR BRAIN SURGERY AND, TRUTHFULLY, IT ISN’T, BUT WE DO ACTUALLY HAVE A SYSTEM. WHERE OUR SYSTEM IS FLAWED, THOUGH, IS THAT IT IS PREDICATED UPON HUMANS ACTING RATIONALLY. THIS IS, SADLY, A FATAL FLAW. I MEAN THE CONSEQUENCES AREN’T FATAL HERE, AS THEY WOULD BE IN A MEDICAL OR AEROSPACE ENVIRONMENT, ALTHOUGH YOU’D THINK THEY WERE CONSIDERING HOW WORKED UP PEOPLE GET ABOUT AN IMPROPERLY COOKED STEAK OR AN OVERSEASONED PORK CHOP.

FURTHER, I AM NOT ALLOWED TO TELL YOU HOW YOU HAVE MUCKED UP THE WORKS WITH YOUR DEMANDS TO SIT IN A CLOSED SECTION, YOUR PROPENSITY FOR TAKING YOUR SERVER HOSTAGE WITH THE PROMISE THAT “WE’RE READY TO ORDER NOW” WHEN IT IS ABUNDANTLY CLEAR TO ANYONE WITHIN EARSHOT THAT YOU ARE FAR FROM READY TO ORDER. THE UNREALISTIC EXPECTATION OF BOTH YOU AND OUR EMPLOYERS THAT WE MUST MAKE YOU HAPPY AS IF WE ARE CIRCUS PERFORMERS IS NOTHING SHORT OF MADDENING. WE ARE NOT CIRCUS PERFORMERS. WE ARE HUMAN BEINGS. ALL OF US FLAWED, MOST OF US JUST DOING THE BEST WE CAN TO MUDDLE THROUGH OUR DAYS WITH THE LEAST POSSIBLE AMOUNT OF DRAMA. PLEASE KEEP YOUR “SUGGESTIONS” TO YOURSELF. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, WE TAKE THEM PERSONALLY.

If I had said that, I would have lost my job. If I had lost my job, my kid would have to drop out of college, and, as a result, might become a drug dealer herself or, worse, a bartender. If she were to become a bartender, she might become as bitter and crusty as her mother. If she were to become as bitter and crusty as her old mother, she might take up blog writing. If she takes up blog writing she might get some “big ideas” about herself — ideas that may lead her to believe that there is something better out there for her. If she began operating under the delusion that there was something more worthwhile that she could do, but just couldn’t figure out a way to do it, she might become even more bitter and crusty than her mother. That’s a lot of bitter and crusty. And, really, no one would wish that on her own child. Even someone as bitter and crusty as me.

---

Admittedly, it’s still a work in progress. I am, though, right now imagining it illustrated in a cute way, with badgers or wolves or, dragons, even! I don’t know. I think I might be on to something here. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve finally had that “big idea” I’ve been searching for.

Tales from The Annoying Bar and Grill: Knowing Our Worth

I think it’s been well established that I work for $2.13/hour. And, really, that’s fine. The tips make up for it. I never see a paycheck, though. The $85 that I earn is eaten up in taxes and other things.

In other words, while I work for this pittance, I don’t rely upon it for anything. It’s like ghost money.

I am scheduled for about 38 hours a week. Once in a while, though, I come close to or go over the 40-hour mark. When this happens — and it is a rare occurrence — management carries on as if I had murdered someone, like their first-born. In my defense, the only reason I ever exceed the 40 hours is that I have a couple of shifts where I can’t get the hell out of Dodge because I have customers who refuse to leave. I’m not sure what, exactly, I’m supposed to do about that? (But, I think I’ve formulated a plan!)

My late presence over at The Annoying Bar and Grill has nothing to do with poor time management on my part. I do realize, in management’s defense, that for some of my younger, rookie co-workers this is not the case. Learning to use one’s time wisely in a restaurant environment takes, well, time. Some of these kids are barely out of training. They are still figuring out how to wait on tables efficiently.

Last night, being Sunday and the end of our pay period, these youngsters were scurrying around nervously. It came to my attention that they were racing around the kitchen like a bunch of lunatics because they “HAD TO GET OFF THE CLOCK!”

I just shook my head and told them to take “deep, cleansing breaths”, but asked them nicely to please cease running through the kitchen. As amusing as it was to watch a bunch of people run around like chickens with their heads cut off, it just wasn’t safe — for anyone.

By “anyone”, I really meant me. I had already been burned by soup and had my head smashed by a door by people whose behavior I would liken to that of Alice in Wonderland’s White Rabbit. These injuries were, thankfully, minor and wholly survivable. Still, I feared what might come next. An anvil to the head, perhaps? A bread knife to the thigh, perchance?

Finally one of the newbies became flustered and blurted out “IF I DON’T GET OFF THE CLOCK I’M GOING TO BE WRITTEN UP!” That statement got my attention.

I asked him if he had picked up shifts during the week without management approval. He told me that he had not. We determined that he had only worked his scheduled shifts. I told him to relax. I explained that he could not be written up for going into overtime as long as he was working his schedule.

It was then that other co-workers chimed in to tell me that they, too, had been given the same warnings about overtime. Further, they had been told that if they couldn’t work their scheduled 38-hour-week in those 38 hours, they would be “removed” from a shift the following week.

So, it wasn’t just about THIS week. Oy-freaking-vey! “Go ahead.”, I told them exasperatingly and while I was looking for a hardhat, “Let the running around recommence!” Who was I to tell them otherwise, particularly when they might lose a shift — shifts they sorely need to pay for school, car insurance, etc.? I didn’t want their loss of revenue on my conscience, that’s for sure.

I can’t get it off of my mind, though. Like it’s not bad enough to be unworthy of being paid .52 for ten minutes of overtime. Now, apparently, we will be punished for circumstances that are, by and large, out of our control? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do — because I can’t afford to lose a shift either. (And, yes, I was told repeatedly over the weekend that I was “very, very close to OT”. I wasn’t all that close, to tell the truth.)

I’m going to have the managers wait on any late arrivals from now on. They want to start this game? That’s fine. I’ll finish it. And, yes, the result will probably be the same — I’ll lose a shift or get written up for insubordination, but I don’t care.

If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. That’s for damn sure.

---

Writing people up (and, yes, eventually terminating them — that’s what the “write-ups” are for; evidence used by management to show a “pattern of behavior”) because they go into overtime seems like it would be (or should be) illegal, but what do I know? If anyone has any information regarding this — or can point me to a resource where I can get the information — I’m all ears!

Ten Points to Nitwit!

So, you slid in under the wire, did you? You managed to stick your foot in the door at 10:59:59, did you? You certainly are a slick one, I’ll tell you that.

I’ll tell you what else you are, just in case you are not aware of it. Consider it a public service. You, my friend, are a nincompoop. Of the highest order. Do I even need to tell you that I, and the rest of the serving community-at-large, have no patience for nincompoops?

If you are an overachieving nincompoop, one who wants to, say, graduate to nitwit in a relatively short amount of time, here are just a few of the behaviors that you absolutely must engage in should you seize an opportunity to be seated in a closed restaurant.

You’ll need ten points. Walking in the door just as it was being locked? You’ve already earned one point! I suspect that collecting the other nine won’t present a problem for a nincompoop like you!

---

Promise to “be quick”. (1 point)

Because this is the battle cry of the latecomer, it is only worth one point. Still, a point is a point.

Ask at least two questions pertaining to salad. (1 point)

It’s salad. What more do you need to know? Sadly, every nincompoop we come into contact with DURING OUR REGULAR BUSINESS HOURS asks ridiculous questions about salad. You don’t get extra points for your late arrival. For those of you who cannot even formulate a question, but are still stumped by salad, let me give you a head start. Try the most ridiculous question first: “Does it have lettuce in it?”

Comment on the noise level. (2 points)

WHY, YES, IT IS LOUD IN HERE! This may be the result of you being the only human occupying such a cavernous space. This one is worth a whopping two points because only a nincompoop with zero grasp of elementary school science would be surprised by this. Consider these points a gift and a testament to my compassionate nature. I do feel terrible for someone who barely made it out of the fifth grade.

Require an explanation of meat (or poultry). (3 points)

Chicken comes, oddly enough, from chickens. The other two choices that are available at most American restaurants — beef and pork —  are a little trickier, I’ll give you that. Still, even a nincompoop who is well on his way to becoming a nitwit, such as yourself, should be able to work through this one. If you can’t, though, good for you! It’s worth three whole points. Cows provide us with beef; pigs with pork. It is a crying shame that you cannot, at your age, identify the animals which have given their lives to sustain you — a person who wanders through life in such an oblivious manner. If there is such a thing as karma, and I am optimistic that there is, you can look forward to death by stampede. Yee-Ha!

Ask what is “fresh”. (3 points)

We are CLOSED. Nothing is “fresh”. Frankly, nothing was “fresh” when we opened. Did you see a vegetable garden when you pulled into the parking lot — a parking lot that borders a major highway? How about a pond? Or a corral? The only thing “fresh” is going to be your server if you don’t snap to it and order already!

Order everything “well done”. (4 points, plus 2 “bonus” points for sending it back because it is overcooked!)

This one is worth a lot of points because it is already behavior befitting a nitwit. Of course you want a well done 30-ounce slab of beef. Of course you do. Without fail, and every server on the planet sees this coming, it will be “too” well done for you. Congratulations! Please reward yourself with two bonus points. Well done!

Order dessert. (5 points)

Only a nincompoop just points away from being a nitwit would order dessert from a server and a kitchen staff that they are, effectively, holding  hostage an hour-and-a-half AFTER said restaurant has closed for the evening. We were ready for you, though. There’s a piece of cheesecake that we’ve been trying to unload since 1995. That baby has your name written all over it. Bon Apetit!

---

Those ten points weren’t too hard to earn, were they? You sure are on a roll! Why stop at nitwit, though? Especially now. If my math is correct, and I’m fairly certain that it is (I’m NO nitwit!), you are already well on your way, following tonight’s shenanigans, to becoming an asshat. I’ll have to check the paperwork, but I think you’ll need fifteen points for that one. It sounds like a lot, but I think you’re just the nitwit for the job.

Let me get you started by making the following helpful suggestion: Be the first one at the Starbuck’s tomorrow. Arrive at 6:48 AM. Make sure you bang loudly on the door to alert them to your presence. (Encountering a newly-crowned nitwit is every coffee shop workers dream at the crack of dawn!) I daresay that your local barista will be delighted to award you bonus points for pressing your nose up to the glass and miming that you want coffee. She’s probably never seen that before!

I’ll alert the asshats to get your membership card ready.

The Picture Menu

I have made the recommendation, on numerous occasions and to no avail, that what we are sorely in need of, what we could really use — over at The Annoying Bar & Grill — is a picture menu. Sadly, I’ve only been half-kidding when I’ve made this (sometimes) snarky suggestion.

A resource such as this would go a long way in helping us to avoid situations like the one in which I found myself last week. Then again, if we had a picture menu, I wouldn’t have this fabulous story to tell. File under “every cloud has a silver lining”.

My absolute favorite table last week consisted of two men who, instead of mirroring my warm smile, chose to greet me, instead, with some finger snapping. No one, and I mean no one, enjoys a finger-snapper more than I do.

These two, as it would turn out, enjoyed gesturing of all kinds. In fairness, it was the resource that they had at their disposal to make themselves understood, as they spoke almost no English. They would have been prime candidates for a picture menu. I’ll bet they would have appreciated such a thing.

Following their attention-getting (and immediately off-putting) finger snapping, I was drawn into a game of charades. They were forced, due to the nonexistence of a picture menu, to attempt to convey to me what they wanted to eat by making fish faces, by mimicking swimming. Yes. Grown men were doing this. Had I known then that they spoke zero English I may not have been able to help myself from guessing aloud, rather than just thinking, “Wait. Wait. Is it ‘The Incredible Mr. Limpet'”?

They followed up the fish faces by opening and closing their fingers. Okay, I thought, maybe it isn’t a movie. Could it be a song? Is it “Rock Lobster”? (I dispensed with this line of thinking rather quickly. Who was I kidding? They couldn’t possibly be referencing that old song, could they?)

Sensing my confusion, one of them grabbed my pen and my order book from my hand. Not quite as rude as finger snapping, but pretty close. It was then that I realized that we had moved on from charades. It would seem that I was going to be an unwilling participant in an impromptu game of “Pictionary”. (A case could be made that they were fashioning their own picture menu here!)

The clue-giver discussed something with his dining partner, in their own language, prior to sketching a very primitive rendering of a fish on my order pad, with my pen. (I wanted to point out that colluding with another player was tantamount to cheating, but I decided to suspend the rules of the game for the time being. We needed to move this along. I had other tables, for crying out loud!)

Their sketch looked very much like this:
As you can see, no pincers in sight. And so I ordered them the tilapia. And the French fries. Because I didn’t want to assume rice and be pigeonholed as a racist.

Frankly, I don’t know how they decided upon our restaurant to begin with. What made them pull in to our establishment if what they were after was a fish dinner? Do cow horns, which are featured prominently in our logo, mean something else in their part of Asia? Do cows SWIM there?

As if this whole exchange had not been interesting enough, it got more amusing (and, yes, slightly frustrating) as our relationship progressed. They seemed to be very excited when I delivered their main courses, excitement which I mistook for “Wow! Look at that! She got it! She understood us!Fantastic!” This, as I would soon find out, was a grave mistake on my part.

Their enthusiastic reactions were not, as I had originally suspected, a result of their love of tilapia and French fries. It became clear to me, as I read their body language, that, perhaps, tilapia was not what they had had in mind when they drew what any child would agree was a picture of a flat fish sans pincers. They kept pointing at their meals, shaking their heads in the negative, and making “pinching” gestures with their hands. “Ah!”, I thought, “It was lobster they wanted after all.”

In a “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” mindset, I made a motion with my own hands, which I hoped they would understand was meant to convey the message: “Calm down. I’ll get you a couple of lobster tails!” (I was tempted to add pincers to their fish picture, but abandoned that notion as too time-consuming.)

As they were shoving their unwanted tilapia at me, I removed the plates to the kitchen. I then had to have a conversation, in Spanglish, with the kitchen staff — a group who might also benefit from pictures of our food. I explained that I needed a couple of lobster tail dinners and that I needed them “rapido“. The emphasis being on rapido!
.

My finger-snappers seemed relieved when I brought out their lobster tails. They were not wholly satisfied, however. They began to point at the French fries and shake their heads, again vigorously, again in a negative way. I was beginning to suspect that I had made the wrong starch selection. I then did what any racist idiot worth her salt would do under these circumstances, which was to hightail it back to the kitchen and procure for them some rice — their native grain of choice.

My cave artists did NOT want rice. How did I know that they did not want rice? They took their forks and proceeded to throw the rice off of their plates and onto the tabletop as they, once again, shook their heads back and forth to convey the message: “No. We do NOT want rice.”

They followed up the rice-tossing with a closed fisted, up and down gesture — a gesture that I interpreted, in this situation, to mean “mashed”. While this action means something altogether different to Americans, as we don’t have “jerk-off” potatoes, I threw caution to the wind and went with the “mashed” potatoes.

Once they had left and as I was clearing the area of the errant grains of rice that had been unceremoniously “removed” from their plates, one of my co-workers blew by and reminded me that it could have been worse — that they could have ordered dessert. I reminded him that the dessert menus have pictures.

GTFO: A Love Story

Like any other hip denizen of the Twenty-first Century, I, too, have come to think in acronyms. One of my absolute favorites? “GTFO”. It means, “Get the fuck out”. (If you are sensitive to vulgarities, are not from New Jersey, or are my mother, feel free to substitute the “F-word” of your choice. It’ll still pack the same punch. It’s flexible in this and in many other ways.)

I have come to use it so often (possibly too often) that a work buddy sent me the following meme and suggested that I adopt it as my own personal logo. He may also have helpfully suggested that I order t-shirts, hats, stickers, and tote bags emblazoned with it — the idea being that I could just point to it in situations, of which there are far too many, where saying it aloud might be frowned upon.



I just might do it.

Just because I cannot say it or because I have not gotten around to ordering any merchandise that would enable me to point to my newfound logo, Carol Merrill-style, that doesn’t mean that I can’t think it. I can. And I do. A lot.

The people that I come into contact with the most in my line of work who really need to GTFO are not the ones, surprisingly enough, with whom I must spend great lengths of time discussing the finer points of the fried green tomato. (They’re green and they’re fried. Enough said.) Believe it or not, I actually prefer these idiots to the idiots who order their food to go.

Frankly, I do not understand why anyone would ever order a steak to go. Why pay money for a decent piece of meat only to have it slapped into a plastic container? Unless it is being consumed in the parking lot, it must surely take on the properties — the funky taste, the delightful aroma — of this container on the ride home. Why not, I often wonder, just go ahead and gnaw on a Solo cup? Cut out the middle man altogether.

There can be almost no other way to ruin a perfectly prepared filet mignon than to let it sit in a box, if you want my opinion. Oddly enough no one has ever asked for my opinion on this subject. That’s probably because I would be delighted to share it with them or, at the very least, shoot them my best GTFO look. Same thing.

These patrons not only need to GTFO, they needed to never have CTFI (Come The Fuck In). The resentment that I harbor toward “The Take-Out Assholes”, as I affectionately refer to them, is not, truthfully, completely their fault. The fault lies more in how my company, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to handle take-out orders.

In what is possibly the dumbest corporate decision I have ever had to endure — and working in a corporate restaurant is a test of endurance — take-out orders are the responsibility of the bartender. The executives who devised this idiotic system cannot GTFO soon enough for me.

If I didn’t know any better I would conclude that none of them had ever worked in a restaurant before. I might even question whether or not they had ever eaten in one. Of course I’m kidding about the latter. The former, however, is very likely true. The people who make and then marry themselves to these decisions have either never been on the front lines or are so far removed from this experience to render it moot. The five minutes that they spent bartending or serving back in culinary school or during their restaurant management internship does not count.

I often wonder if, when this — the dumbest decision ever — was arrived at, they were holding their meeting in an opium den or a crack house. Because diminished capacity is the only explanation I can come up with as to why anyone with even a passing knowledge of how a restaurant works — and this is the crowd that is supposed to have all the answers — could even entertain the (very misguided) notion that this is a bang-up idea.

It most certainly is not.

I, for one, am finished with it. I have devised my own evil plan for dealing with all future take-out orders. And guess what? So far, it’s working.

I came to formulate this plan following a shit show of a shift in which I had to decipher no less than seven fairly large to-go orders. Yes, I said decipher. Why? Because in their opium-induced coma, one (or more) of our afore-mentioned illustrious leaders decided that the bartenders, the folks who know the menu, should not be tasked with actually taking the orders. Not that we would ever have time for that nonsense, but still that bit of business — a very important bit of business, let me just add — is taken care of by our host staff. Do I even need to tell you that these people do NOT know the ins and the outs of our menu? And, even if they did, do you think they have the time to spend fifteen minutes on the phone with someone discussing side dishes? They do not.

Throughout the course of the evening what happened with these take-out orders is what always happens with take-out orders: the people who order them come in to pick them up when I am busy. Somehow, and I don’t know how, I found the time to put a few of them together myself and breathed a sigh of relief as they and their owners left the building, happily swinging their little brown bags filled with food that was destined to be a disappointment, but what did I care? They were gone. They had GTFO. (You can substitute “gotten” for “get” in this handy acronym! Like I mentioned earlier, it’s flexible!)

The two largest orders were, I noted, sitting in the window, ready to be put together when the inevitable occurred: I got very busy. A couple decided to sit at one of the bar-top tables. I had service bar tickets hitting the floor (that’s a lot of service bar tickets!). There were no less than six guests sitting at the bar who were ready to order their dinners — meals that they had expectations of being able to order and to eat within a reasonable amount of time. I felt kind of bad for everyone, to tell you the truth. This would have been an excellent time for me to sprout another arm.

In the midst of all of this, I had to deal with The Take-Out Assholes. Was their food ready? Well, sir, that hinges upon whether or not you were planning on consuming it out of the service window. Was it going to be long? That depends on your definition of “long”, ma’am. Can I pay for it? Why, yes. We are always delighted to take your money. And, again, is it ready YET? Nope.

What I did take the time to notice in all of this was the blank line on their credit slips — the line where one normally inserts a gratuity — a gratuity for the $2.13/hour employee who is breaking her ass trying to make it so you can GTFO. That’s when I had an epiphany. That epiphany? I’m not working for nothing anymore. Because while it may seem ridiculous to your average Take-Out Asshole that a gratuity is both appreciated and, yes, expected when your food is gathered together by a tipped employee, they don’t see it that way.

What no one seems to want to acknowledge is the impact that these take-out orders have on my ability to properly serve the guests who have not only chosen to eat in the building like normal people, but who will, if all goes well, tip accordingly. It makes no sense for me to spend my time and expend my energy on hundreds of dollars worth of take-out orders with little to no hope of monetary remuneration. And, so, I won’t be doing it anymore.

What will I be doing? Why, what I did the other night, of course. What was that, you ask? I got a manager. I told him that I did not have time to deal with the orders. I did the same thing the next day. And, I’ll do it tomorrow, too. I’m assuming they’ll catch on at some point, but I don’t care. Their bonuses are based on sales. Let them deal with the take-out bullshit. If they tell me to GTFO, so be it.

The “Time-Out” Corner Over at The Annoying Bar & Grill

It is no wonder that the world is in its current state. It is a result, I fear, of the people who populate it. I bump up against certain “types” quite often in my very glamorous career as a restaurant worker. Most days I wonder why I don’t just go ahead and work in a nursery school. Your average preschooler would, no doubt, be far easier to reason with. It’s a good bet that they also have fewer sulking fits, temper tantrums, or public meltdowns, too.

Let’s take a moment to review the following examples and then you tell me, do these people need to be placed in a “time-out” corner over at The Annoying Bar & Grill?

“ME FIRST” FRED
Fred is the guy who, as a child, always wanted to be the “line leader” — even when it wasn’t his turn. His foot is barely in the door, his ass has not even grazed a barstool or a chair and, yet, he’s looking for someone — anyone — to fulfill his every need. (He must be delightful at home!)

Every time he comes in I want to say, “Sit your ass down, Fred. I’ll be with you in a minute!” It’s no matter that my hands are full or that I am currently at another table dragging an order out of some cretin who either can’t read, doesn’t speak English, or is unable to grasp the difference between a baked potato and a mashed potato, Fred wants to give me his order “on the run”.

Fred fears that we may run out salmon ten minutes after we open or that he won’t get the adequate number of mushrooms on his sandwich if he doesn’t get his food before everyone else in the building. Fred is a pain in the ass with deep-seated psychological problems that likely are a result of “middle-child syndrome”. Fred needs to chill the hell out.

Fred — and people like him — are probably the reason people hate Americans.

---

“COUPON” CAL
Cal is the sort of man who carries with him a pencil case full of coupons. How he found a woman is beyond me.

This bright yellow zippered affair that Cal uses to organize his cheapness may, very likely, be a remnant of his preschool days. Cal’s mommy, I’m certain, saved it for him. Like a cherished Teddy Bear or security blanket, this thing has been with him since childhood — so, too, has his penchant for pouting.

When I arrive to take his order, Cal has helpfully spread out all of the coupons that he has gathered for our establishment — some of them date back to the turn of the Twenty-first Century. Unlike my coworkers, Cal knows that I will take and combine any and all coupons, regardless of their expiration dates. Hell, I’ll even accept a competitor’s coupon.

That I engage in this chicanery is not, as Cal thinks, because I am a “nice lady”. Cal actually refers to me in this way, though. I have heard him ask the host, “Can we sit with the ‘nice lady’ today?” What Cal does not know is that the real reason I allow him this folly has nothing to do with the fact that I am a “nice lady”, rather I indulge this foolishness because I cannot stand to see a grown man become crestfallen over something as ridiculous as a free appetizer. Cheap people make me uncomfortable; cheap men creep me the hell out.

Undoubtedly, Cal still has the first dollar he ever made. It is probably framed and displayed prominently in his home, alongside the picture of his dear, departed, pencil case-saving mother.

---

“POOR PLANNING” PETE
Much like Lewis Carroll’s “White Rabbit”, Pete is always late for some “very important date”. Still, Pete wants to enjoy a well-done Porterhouse steak for lunch. Because, you know, the world revolves around Pete.

That Pete’s expectations clash with reality will, unfortunately, become my problem. Like a preschooler who insists that every day is his birthday, Pete has never fully come to grips with how time works — or with how long it actually takes to cook a well-done Porterhouse steak.

Pete could use a lesson in time management or, barring that, might benefit from resolving himself to eating rare meat. Pete, as I’m sure you can imagine, is always disappointed in the inability of our kitchen to push out his giant slab of beef in the ten minutes that he has allotted himself for lunch.

Pete is a bonehead of the highest order who, if there is a God, will be the first guy in line when time machines become available. He won’t be, though. If I know anything about Pete, he’ll be late to that party, too.

---

“ANXIOUS” ANNIE
Annie isn’t necessarily in a hurry — she just wants you to think that she is, so, you know, you’ll move faster. She wants everyone to live in her frenetic universe.

She comes in to pick up her take-out order with her credit card at the ready. She feels the need to wave it over her head to indicate her presence. No matter that you are in the middle of waiting on a guest who has manners and a full understanding of what waiting his turn means, Annie wants your attention and she wants it yesterday.

Annie enjoys sighing and eye-rolling when she feels that she and her $8 order (an order that NEVER warrants a gratuity!) have not been assigned the proper level importance in the scheme of my day.

If only, I often think, I could manipulate a romantic match between Annie and Pete. They could marry and raise a whole slew of demanding children to be released into an unsuspecting world. For the good of all mankind, it is probably best that I do not take up matchmaking. On the other hand, their progeny might make an excellent secret weapon. Our enemies would run for the hills at the first sight of them. That’s exactly what I want to do when I’m confronted with their parents.

---

Sadly for me and for the rest of us who work in the restaurant business, these people are not going to disappear from the landscape of our lives. Still, I fantasize about creating a “time-out” corner at The Annoying Bar and Grill. I would install these people there on an itty-bitty chair and make them wear a dunce cap — headwear that I would happily fashion from the leather of all of the shoes that I’ve worn out running hither and yon in an effort to fulfill their need for extra parsley, copious amounts of water, bleu cheese for their olives, or honey for their stupid hot (“now it’s lukewarm”!) tea.

I don’t know, maybe it’s me who needs the “time-out”?

---

Weird Mojo

When I returned home Sunday evening, exhausted and sweaty after a 30-hour weekend, I thought to myself, “Well, that wasn’t too bad.” Outside of the woman who screamed “Miss” so loudly and shrilly that I’m pretty sure she loosened a few roofing tiles in the process, I had had what, in the restaurant business, amounts to a relatively uneventful, but still very long, weekend.

Then it occurred to me that my perception of what is “relatively uneventful” may be slightly skewed. For those of you who have run-of-the-mill jobs, you may find some comic relief in what, for me, passes for normal. For those of you in the industry, I’m sure you can relate. And, let’s admit it, in every walk of life there often exists a little weird mojo.

To the screamer, who surely has a future in horror film voice overs if her career as a prostitute doesn’t work out — I can’t really imagine what other type of work she could be in, dressed as she was on a Saturday afternoon and allowing herself to be pawed at by her much older companion in one of the nastiest displays of public affection I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing — I was the “Miss” in question. If I didn’t need my job I would have asked the old geezer why he was bothering to wine and dine this woman. Clearly, she was a “sure thing”.

When Street Corner Sally decided that she needed my attention right that minute she employed the dulcet tones that one normally associates with someone who is making a valid, yet futile, attempt at waking the dead, I was standing not two feet away from her. Trust me, I wasn’t avoiding this pair. In fact, I’d have to say that I was being overly attentive to this table, wanting, as I did, to get them the hell out of there PDQ.

Was she screaming because she needed me to extricate her from the clutches of her overzealous “date”? No. No, she was not. Was her wig, in fact, on fire as a result of being pushed up against the wall lamp by her handsy companion? No. No, it was not. She just wanted to let me know that she needed a box to wrap the morsels and the scraps that were left on her plate. Calling them leftovers would be playing far too fast and loose with the term.

Although these remnants that I can testify were at one time food now looked more like something one would feed the neighborhood cats than anything a human would ever willingly consume, our lady of the afternoon announced that they were “snacks for later”. When I encounter this type of thing — and I encounter it more often than I’d like to admit — I oh-so-want to say, “Really? Seriously? You’re going to eat that? Later? ” In this case, I would have added, “How about you stop at the 7-11 on your way to wherever it will be that the sex act will take place and have your sugar daddy grab you a bag of chips?” I’m sure he’d have bought her the name brand ones. After all, he encouraged her to order the most expensive margarita. I don’t think he would have cheaped out on the chips.

Who “snacks” on meat gristle and previously masticated potato? Who? Crazy people. That’s who.

While bartending later in the weekend, I began to get the distinct impression that a “crazy person spell” had been cast upon a couple of the barstools. It sometimes happens that throughout the course of a shift all the loonies wind up sitting in the same location. It’s a strange phenomenon. Odder still is that the spell seems to gain momentum and the wacky grow wackier as the shift progresses. Weird mojo.

As this night wore on, several former (or current, what do I know?) mental patients chose the enchanted barstools. I’ll just tell you about a couple of my favorites.

“Thirsty Man” was a real standout. When he and his friend came in and chose those stools I thought that, perhaps, the spell had been broken. They were in their 60’s and didn’t appear crazy. I should, after all these years, have known better than to make assumptions based on appearance. It’s true that sometimes crazy people do, in fact, look crazy. It’s also true that just because someone looks normal doesn’t mean they are.

I saw them sit down and indicated by both body language and actual language that I would be right with them. They seemed to have understood. Thinking that I no longer had to worry about the “crazy person spell”, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, which, unfortunately, turned out to be premature.

I was stunned when, within seconds, one of these grown men began pounding his fist on the bar while chanting (yes, chanting!), “I’m thirsty! I’m thirsty! I’m thirsty!” Uh-huh. I got them their drinks. When they asked for the check immediately, which indicated that they were going to spend the rest of their time with us at a table and not at the bar, I said a silent “thank you” to the higher power. This wasn’t the last I would see of them, though. Oh, no. Their server wasn’t fast enough for “Thirsty Man” who continued to make appearances and demands for beverages throughout the course of his stay. Yeah.

Fifteen minutes prior to closing time — just when I thought it was safe — two gentlemen shuffled in and occupied the magic stools. They kept asking me questions about our chicken and rib “combos”. I pointed out that while we have a couple of “combos” on our menu, none of them include combinations of chicken and ribs. I pointed out that patrons can make their own combos by adding chicken to their ribs or ribs to their chicken. I showed them where they were on the menu and how much they would pay for these additions. Needless to say, this took some time — time that was, at fifteen minutes prior to closing, of the essence.

Following a number of mathematical calculations that had to be figured by me — you don’t think these guys could do their own arithmetic, do you? — these two time-wasters decided to go up the road and try their luck at another steakhouse, one that apparently has combos and combo pricing listed on their menu — a place where patrons are not required to do their own math. (Or, in their case, enlist the bartender to do it for them!) When they meandered out I looked at the clock. It was 9:58. I sorely doubt they made it to our competitor’s establishment prior to their 10:00 PM closing time. Oh, well. A nicer person, a better person, a less worn-out person would have pointed this out to them. I was not, by this stage of the game, any of these things.

My parting thought for them was not, “Oh, what a shame! They won’t get to have chicken and rib combos tonight.” No, it was not. It was, in fact, “Sayonara, suckers! I hope you enjoy your Whoppers!” Go ahead and judge me if you want to, but keep in mind that it was the end of a long weekend and, really, I’d put up with enough from the magic barstools already!

I felt that a little spell breaking might be in order. Desirous of changing the bad juju, I decided to sit on the affected barstools myself. It was the most fun I’d had all weekend. Hoping to remove the curse, I sassily rubbed my bottom across the stools. I won’t lie, I also engaged in some evil cackling. It wasn’t lost on me that the nuttiness associated with the patrons who sat upon these stools might just be replaced by outright bitchiness.

What can I say? Sometimes you have to cast your own weird mojo.

Don’t Sit There!

Sadly, it is time once again (*sigh*) for another primer on how to dine out in a restaurant. This edition will focus primarily on being seated. This is a concept that seems simple enough and, in theory, it should be. The reality is that being seated in a restaurant is fraught with difficulty. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

My theory is that it stems from that horrid adage “The customer is always right”. Truthfully, they’re not. Would you like to know why? This is simple enough to explain. They do not work in the industry and, as a result, they don’t understand how something as simple as sitting where they’re put can (and often does) adversely affect the rest of their dining experience.

There’s a reason you are being directed to a particular table. Likely it’s where you have the best chance at great service.

If you insist on sitting someplace of your own choosing and are TOLD that you will have to wait a few minutes for your server, please process that information and act accordingly. Do not wave your hands wildly or, worse, stand up when the person that you suspect is your server flies around the corner with a tray full of drinks. This behavior will probably not end well for either of you, nor for the unsuspecting guest behind you who will get a noggin full of Sprite because you HAD to make your presence known.

I know. I know. You’re special. You’re in a hurry. (Guess what? Everyone SAYS they’re in a hurry — EVERYONE!) I understand that folks like you — crazy rule breakers that you are — need the world’s undivided attention. I have an idea. Stay home where you are the King of Your Castle, A Legend In Your Own Mind. It really will be best for everyone.

For those of you who claim to have fifteen minutes for lunch, guess what? We’re on to your bullshit. Not that I think you have much sense, but I assume you can tell time. If, indeed, you only had that much time for lunch, you would have gone to a fast food joint or a deli. If your time is, indeed, limited (and, really, everyone’s time is finite on some level, isn’t it?) it would especially behoove you to pop a squat at the table where you were initially directed to sit.

What’s that? You want to watch some foolish sporting event? A sporting event that can only be seen comfortably from eight tables in the restaurant? Six of which are currently occupied? And the bar is full, too? May I suggest that the next time you go out to watch some meaningless sporting event, instead of insisting on sitting in a section where the server is clearly busy or at a bar that is obviously full and then stressing out the staff, you make it your business to leave a few minutes earlier.

Oh, wait. That’s right. The world revolves around you. You and your needs. You and your fifteen-minute lunch hour. This may come as a shock to you — you who thinks himself so special — but you are not the only American whose lunch hour falls between the hours of noon and two. You are not the only idiot who has the same bright idea to watch some foolish game that, let’s be honest, you couldn’t care less about.

Yes. I’m talking about World Cup Soccer. Every four years you crazy soccer fans come out of the woodwork. Suddenly we’ve got a nation of soccer enthusiasts on our hands. I’ll guarantee you that, by and large, you people don’t even know the damn rules. (I’ve overheard you talking and, in fact, I KNOW that you don’t know the rules!)

Here’s what I love most about you people who refuse to listen to the folks who know a thing or three about what is going on in their dining establishment. Those of you who plop your asses down and sit wherever the hell you want to sit just because you can, because you’re the customer and you’re ALWAYS right — you will spend your time with us disappointed and unhappy. Here’s a news flash for you: It’s all your own fault.

Open your eyes. Clean out your ears. Listen to what you’re being told. This is basic and something that most of you should have learned in pre-school. You probably weren’t paying attention, though.

That’s no surprise. You don’t pay attention to anything. I know. I know. You’re probably distracted by or absorbed in a game that involves a ball of some sort. (It’s not only World Cup Soccer that brings you in — sometimes it’s golf or tennis or the all-important National Ping-Pong Championships.) Even though you have fifteen minutes for lunch, you don’t have the first clue as to what you want to eat. You order things that aren’t even on the menu — clearly this isn’t your usual lunch place. We don’t have Whoppers.

Personally I can’t wait for July 14th to roll around. Not because it’s Bastille Day. Not because it’s my birthday. Because, if my information is correct, this is the date that will bring World Cup Soccer to an end. Sadly, it won’t signal an end to people refusing to sit where we put them, but it’ll help. Right now I need all the help I can get.