People who Seat Themselves

If there is one thing I hate more than any other, it's people who seat themselves.  I find it bewildering, I just don't get it.  Imagine, you walk into a restaurant, there's a sign that says please see the hostess to be sat, there is someone by the door with menus and you just walk right on by.  It just doesn't seem to occur to people that they aren't the most important person in the world.  The restaurant doesn't hold a table just for you douchebag.  See that line of people waiting?  Yeah, they got there first.  "Your" table isn't yours.  It's for one of the people who have been waiting patiently in line to sit down and be served.  

Sometimes, these assholes who think they're more important than the rest of us will actually succeed in cutting in front of all those other people and will just sit down.  Well, guess what?  I'm not serving your ass.  Unless you have menus in front of you, whether they be drink menus or food menus you are nothing to me.  I have tables that were sat, they're important to me.  You?  You're not even there.  And I'll continue looking right past you until you realize what you've done, go see the host, wait in line and you get yourself a table.  The right way.

Children

I work at a family friendly restaurant, with kid friendly food, so I have to deal with a large number of children on a daily basis.  Little kids, babies, preteens, teenagers, lots of kids, which is fine, I totally understand that you want to have a meal with your kids, a little family bonding.  It's downright wholesome.  The problem is many children are sniveling, spoiled little brats, especially here in Davis.  Oftentimes, the child, especially the little ones, wants to order their own food, and will proceed to shout their order at me from the time I first show up at the table to introduce myself and get drink orders until I actually get around to taking their order for dinner.  Look kid, I know you want to be a big kid and you're all independent and shit, but just shut up.  Please, just shut up.  I know you want a fucking hot dog, you've now informed of that fact approximately 937 times.  And I want to stab you in the eye with my pen.  Mom and Dad aren't off the hook on this one either, why don't you tell your little mongoloid to shut his fucking mouth and be polite?  My parents would have killed me if I'd have acted that way in a restaurant.  But you know what really pisses me off?  When they bring Cheerios or some other small cereal type food product along.  I don't care that the kid isn't ordering off the menu, I don't count them as real people in the first place and kid's food is so cheap that it doesn't add that much to the total bill.  But I know, when they leave there are going to be Cheerios fucking everywhere.  You know who has to clean that shit up?  Me.  Clean up after your kids when you leave you irresponsible, overly permissive piece of shit.  And you better tip to make up for the fact that I'm going to have to spend five minutes sweeping cereal off the floor.

On a side note, leaving G St. tonight, went down the alley and walked straight into two people having sex on the ground.  Classy, very classy.  I'm sure your parents are just bursting with pride. 

The Verbal Tip

Every server knows it, every server dreads it.  He busts his ass for you: gets you everything you need, the food is done perfectly, your forty eight modifications were all entered and served properly, your soda/beer/water/mixed drink/whatever was refilled before you thought to ask, he was kind, courteous and helpful, and you had a great time.  Which is wonderful, that's a big reason we do what we do, I want you to enjoy your meal and leave with a smile.  At the end of the meal you tell the manager what an excellent job your server did, maybe you even write him a nice little note on your credit card slip.  Right next to that ten percent tip.  Great, awesome, that's just fucking super, I'm so glad you enjoyed your meal and the service, but you know what?  That nice little note, those kind words, guess what?  Compliments and appreciation don't pay my bills.  I can't use those happy thoughts to buy myself a drink.  In fact, that shit is pretty fucking worthless.  I know times are tough, I get it.  Believe me I get it, but if you go out to eat and have a wonderful time and the service was excellent, write your note directly underneath the twenty percent tip you cheap fuck.

Drunk People

Every server, every bartender, every manager, every busser, everyone who works at a restaurant loathes drunk people.  Nobody thinks it's cute when you stumble around the bar or restaurant talking as loud as you can, spilling your drink on yourself and other patrons, helping yourself to water or bread and just generally making an ass of yourself.  In fact, it's just fucking annoying.  Sit your drunk ass down, read your menu and try not to make everyone around you question whether or not they made the correct decision by coming to eat at that particular establishment.  

I'm not saying that getting good and drunk is a bad thing, your server can probably drink you under the table and get your buddy well on his way to his own personal happy place before the server is done.  I'm just saying try your best to not be a douchebag.  You are not the most important person in the world.  I have five or six other tables to worry about.  Tables that will probably actually tip.  Also known as the opposite of you, you drunken asshole.  

Oh, one last thing.  Hey you, yeah, I'm looking at you.  The drunk girl in the corner.  I have but one thing to say to you.  Shut the FUCK up. Whatever you're laughing at isn't funny and you aren't nearly as hot as you think you are.  In fact, you're a sloppy, drunken mess.  Just sit the fuck down and SHUT UP.  

You All Need to Know the Truth. . .

Your server hates you.  It's true, when you and your family go out to eat, chances are very good that your server not only doesn't care about you at all, but he probably hates you.  You are not a special and unique person.  You are a cover.  You represent my power bill, my rent, a thirty pack, anything that I can spend your money on after I escape from the restaurant.  

Throughout the course of this blog, which I will write until I either lose interest or my identity is revealed and my boss tells me to take this down before I get myself in some real trouble, I will regale you, my nonexistent readers with tales of the stupid shit that people do when they go out to eat. The booze just isn't cutting it anymore.  I need something else to hold down these terrible feelings of murderous rage.  So you, my loyal reader, will be able to join in my cathartic outpouring of hate and bile.  I welcome all my fellow service industry colleagues to send me their own stories which I will turn into a post or to just write a post for me.

Until next time. . .