New Additions to the Errant Apostrophes Family

You may have noticed that I've been updating my lists of links. One of them is the very funny and all-too-true Waiter Rant.

Oh, the joy of a job waiting tables.

No, really. I loved waitressing. It was challenging and fast paced. I met lots of people and enjoyed the interaction. Think you're a good multitasker? Try waiting tables in a busy place and let me know if you still think so. I made good money and enjoyed my job for the first time in my life. In fact, there are times even now when I consider tossing law school and going back to waitressing. And I'm only sort of joking about it.

Then I remember the parts of waitressing that aren't so joyous. The people who talk to you like you must be a moron if you work in such a "lowly" job. The people who just can't be pleased no matter what you do. The people who run you ragged, treat you like crap, then don't leave a tip. The people who take their frustration over the fight they just had with their wife/boss/best friend out on you. The people who try to cheat you. The managers who don't take care of their employees, who try to squeeze the extra .004% profit from the waiters, who are actually abusive to the staff.

I could tell stories for hours on end.

There was the woman who sent her poached eggs back to the kitchen five times. After the second, I came to the table and asked her to please describe exactly how she wanted the white and the yolk to look-- sometimes people would say "sunny side up", but mean "over medium", but most people could say "Whites and yolks cooked ALL the way through", thus enabling me to give the order to the kitchen in a way that would enable the kitchen to cook their food the way they wanted it. Everybody wins! This woman wanted NO part of it and just kept screaming "POACHED! I WANT THEM POACHED!". And of course, after refusing to help me fix the problem (and sending the eggs back again and again), she complained to the manager that she didn't get to eat her meal together with the rest of her party. Luckily, the manager had cottoned on when he passed through the kitchen on my third or fourth go-round with the cooks, and he was having no part of it.

Then there was the guy who would send his coffee back because it was "too cold", every single time. Even if you literally held a cup under the coffeemaker while it was brewing and carried it right out to him, he would send it back. Then I discovered that if I filled the cup with boiling water (for hot tea) and let it sit while I put his food order into the computer, then dumped the water out and filled the hot cup with coffee, he would rave about how great it was. For that little trick, he became one of "my" regulars and would regularly tip 30% or more when I waited on him. Bless his little heart.

Oh, and let's also talk about the periennial favorite: the tables of churchgoers. I don't know why people who are on their way from or to church are so incredibly nasty to wait on and such bad tippers to boot. One would think that it would be the other way around. This was actually the number one reason why I HATED working Sunday brunch-- not the fact that I had to be there by 8 am after working until anywhere between 2 and 4 a.m., not the lower than average tip percentage, not the cranky kitchen staff (NO ONE ever wanted to work brunch)-- it was the holier-than-thous on their way to or from one of the churches down the street from the restaurant who would run you back and forth with one request after another, talk to you like you're a moron, let their kids run (literally) wild in the restaurant (thereby endangering themselves and the staff), get upset when you couldn't immediately accomodate their party of eight in the middle of the 10 a.m. rush, fuss about the amount of butter on the toast and the flavor selection of the jellies, then leave you an 8% tip. What would Jesus do? He would be polite to the hard working server and tip appropriately. Luckily, I was not the victim of the "My Tip For You: Eternal Salvation" pamphlet in lieu of tip on too many occasions.

My days as a server ended when the manager of the run-down, wishes-it-were-fine-dining restaurant I'd been slaving at for no tips (because they wouldn't seat my section, THANKS, SHELLY!) snatched a rag from my hand and proceeded to berate me in front of the entire (full) dining room for "not knowing how to wipe a d*mn table", calling me a stupid cow. I left my name tag on the bar and refused to tip out the nasty bartender who would conveniently "forget" my drink orders all the time so that my already meagre tips shrank even more. I haven't spent a day in the industry since and probably never will again.

But I kind of miss it.