...the first guy at your first table of the day sends back his food the moment arrives at the table because it has an ingredient that he doesn't like and "didn't know" was included, despite the fact that it is clearly listed in the entree's description on the menu, in the line literally right below the title he was so easily able to read.
*smh* I hate people sometimes.
[ degreed waitress ]
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Superstar McAwesomeville
Two months ago, we got a new server. He looks just like Peter from Family Guy. So I'm gonna call him Peter.
Peter is hefty. Like, take the "real" Peter from Family Guy...and then add fifty, maybe a hundred pounds. All in the stomach, just hanging over his belt. Point is, somewhere between Fluffy and Damn! I don't think that he realizes just how large around he is, because he's always moving into the smallest of spaces as if he were fit enough to fit. It's difficult enough to navigate a kitchen overcrowded with normal size people as it is. Or maybe that's just his tactic, forcing his way through the kitchen and the side stand so that other people will just get out of his way, lest be smooshed into the nearest wall. Whatever.
Peter is not a good-lookin' guy. Despite what I may have already led you to believe, I'm not saying this because of his weight. I mean, there's tons of cute chubby guys out there -- just look at most of my exes! [ P.S. writing this, I found this tumblr... I don't know how to react... ] No, I'm talking about his face. But I already told you why I named him "Peter," so there's really no need for me to tell you he's unattractive. What really irks me, though, is that the unattractiveness is not just skin deep.
Peter is abrasive and rude. A brief example. Our servers will do pretty much anything to get a laugh and make the shift more fun. Most common is singing along with the music being played in the restaurant. Just jammin' along to a little diddy... No biggie, right? Dalton and I have a lot of fun this way, and he has a fantastic voice. Dalton trained Peter on his first day, and at one point in the day, Dalton started singing along to whatever song was playing as they walked into the kitchen. Peter's response? He interrupts Dalton with a "Yeah, we've had enough of that." Snark snark snark. Okay, so that's not really a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it's still unnecessarily hostile for a guy on his first day at a new job to curtail a bit of innocent fun. What a Debbie Downer. Listening to Dalton sing always puts me in a better mood. In fact, some of my favorite moments at this hellhole restaurant are of the entire serving staff dramatically singing along to some awesome tunage. Dalton is one of the nicest people you could ever meet, and he always seeks out something good in every person. Honestly, the only times I can recall that he's ever spoken ill of another person, he still tried to sugarcoat and soften the blow with phrases like, "I know she means well...," or -- as a Texan, this is naturally my favorite -- "Bless his heart...". But after one shift training Peter, Dalton simply said, "That guy is an a**hole." And I believe him.
Peter is annoying. There's always that one awkward guy at work, or yoga, or AA, or wherever, who consistently initiates pointless conversations but doesn't have the foggiest idea that you don't have time for the conversation, you don't have an interest in the conversation topic, and above all, you don't have even the slightest desire to have any conversation with him whatsoever, and worst of all, he just. won't. leave.
PETER IS THAT GUY. And it does get worse. How, you ask?
Peter pokes. He pokes when he's bored. He pokes when he wants to be funny. He pokes to get attention. He pokes when he is just simply walking by. He pokes only girls. He pokes hoping that you're ticklish. He pokes expecting a reaction. He pokes dozens of times a shift. He pokes when you don't even realize he's there. He pokes, and he pokes, and he -- AAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He pokes 'til I want to grab that freakin' hand and take him down!
Peter is a total bully. At least, that's what I'm telling myself lately. Supposedly, if you ignore a bully, they'll stop bullying right? I dunno, it's been a while since I was in elementary school, and I sure as hell haven't gotten knocked up and popped out a kid lately, so perhaps I'm a little out-of-date on this whole bullying issue. Point is, the last shift I worked with him, he poked me yet again -- always on my side at the base of my ribcage -- and what did I do? I ignored him. I kept walking. I didn't look at him, didn't react to him, didn't appear to have noticed that I had just been touched at all. And guess what? That was the only time I got poked that day! It was glorious. Only one poke!
Peter is a creepy beyond that, too. He'll walk up to the bar while I'm alone making drinks and demand, "Smile!" Usually I just glare and give a half-assed sarcastic smile and continue ignoring him as he continues, "C'mon. That wasn't a real smile. I want to see you smile. Give me a nice one. C'mon, smile for me!" But one night as he was leaving, I accidentally smiled at him as I said good night (What can I say? I was glad he was leaving!), and he immediately stops, exclaiming, "There's a smile! That one was mine, right? That smile was just for me! That was my smile!" *shudder* Unfortunately, Peter acts this way towards several other female servers as well, Eloise and Hermione included. Bless their little hearts.
Peter introduced himself to me as Roberto Estevez. Which is not his name. I mean, the guy looks completely white. So between that fact and the facetious tone in his voice, I knew he was kidding. He didn't ever tell me his actual name. So I just continued to call him Roberto Estevez. I kinda liked that name. It was fun. On the flip side, he didn't remember my name either at first. There is another female bartender at my restaurant whose name begins with the same letter as mine and people often address me by her name accidentally, so honestly, at this point I respond to her name just as readily as to my own. So Rodrigo Peter called me by her name a couple times, and occasionally I made the effort to correct him politely. By the time he finished training, he had begun to call me by her name purposefully. This conversation ensued:
"You know that's not my name."
"Well you don't know my name, do you?" Snarky. Always snarky.
But matter-of-factly, I stated, "Actually yes I do. It's [ Peter ]."
"No, it's not! My name is James!"
"No, it's not. Your name is [ Peter ]. Every time you ring in a drink for me to make, your name prints on the bottom of the ticket. So unless you go by a middle name, or have some weird situation going on, the name you provided [ our restaurant ] to legally obtain employment is [ Peter ]. Besides, I wouldn't want you to be named James."
Peter is visibly defeated by my smartypants-ness. "Why not?"
"Because I just broke up with a James."
Bug-eyed, Peter scurried off and never called me her name again, nor challenged me regarding his name. Mental happy dance ensues.
Peter apparently believed that this episode brought about the need for me to have a nickname. I was unaware of this need. But the next shift I bartended with Peter serving, he asked me if he could call me "Bar Wench." I replied that he could not. An hour later, "How 'bout 'Bar B*tch?'" Definitely not. Another hour passes in this quest for a nickname, and Peter has now grown the balls to strut up to my bar, slam his hand down forcefully, and state quite emphatically, "Well, it's either be 'Bar Wench' or 'Bar B*itch.' Which is it gonna be?"
"Neither," I snapped as I continued working. "'Bar B*tch is offensive. And 'wench' is already the nickname a friend of mine calls me. He has a very special place in my heart, and only he gets to call me 'wench.'" (Oddly enough, that is true). Again, Peter is visibly defeated. And again, I'm doing a mental happy dance as he slinks away. A few hours later, he comes up with another nickname suggestion that is so random, so hilarious, so wonderful, that I joyfully allow it:
Superstar McAwesomeville.
For once in my life, I have no words.
[ degreed waitress ]
 |
| [ photo credit ] |
Peter is hefty. Like, take the "real" Peter from Family Guy...and then add fifty, maybe a hundred pounds. All in the stomach, just hanging over his belt. Point is, somewhere between Fluffy and Damn! I don't think that he realizes just how large around he is, because he's always moving into the smallest of spaces as if he were fit enough to fit. It's difficult enough to navigate a kitchen overcrowded with normal size people as it is. Or maybe that's just his tactic, forcing his way through the kitchen and the side stand so that other people will just get out of his way, lest be smooshed into the nearest wall. Whatever.
Peter is not a good-lookin' guy. Despite what I may have already led you to believe, I'm not saying this because of his weight. I mean, there's tons of cute chubby guys out there -- just look at most of my exes! [ P.S. writing this, I found this tumblr... I don't know how to react... ] No, I'm talking about his face. But I already told you why I named him "Peter," so there's really no need for me to tell you he's unattractive. What really irks me, though, is that the unattractiveness is not just skin deep.
Peter is abrasive and rude. A brief example. Our servers will do pretty much anything to get a laugh and make the shift more fun. Most common is singing along with the music being played in the restaurant. Just jammin' along to a little diddy... No biggie, right? Dalton and I have a lot of fun this way, and he has a fantastic voice. Dalton trained Peter on his first day, and at one point in the day, Dalton started singing along to whatever song was playing as they walked into the kitchen. Peter's response? He interrupts Dalton with a "Yeah, we've had enough of that." Snark snark snark. Okay, so that's not really a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it's still unnecessarily hostile for a guy on his first day at a new job to curtail a bit of innocent fun. What a Debbie Downer. Listening to Dalton sing always puts me in a better mood. In fact, some of my favorite moments at this hellhole restaurant are of the entire serving staff dramatically singing along to some awesome tunage. Dalton is one of the nicest people you could ever meet, and he always seeks out something good in every person. Honestly, the only times I can recall that he's ever spoken ill of another person, he still tried to sugarcoat and soften the blow with phrases like, "I know she means well...," or -- as a Texan, this is naturally my favorite -- "Bless his heart...". But after one shift training Peter, Dalton simply said, "That guy is an a**hole." And I believe him.
Peter is annoying. There's always that one awkward guy at work, or yoga, or AA, or wherever, who consistently initiates pointless conversations but doesn't have the foggiest idea that you don't have time for the conversation, you don't have an interest in the conversation topic, and above all, you don't have even the slightest desire to have any conversation with him whatsoever, and worst of all, he just. won't. leave.
PETER IS THAT GUY. And it does get worse. How, you ask?
Peter pokes. He pokes when he's bored. He pokes when he wants to be funny. He pokes to get attention. He pokes when he is just simply walking by. He pokes only girls. He pokes hoping that you're ticklish. He pokes expecting a reaction. He pokes dozens of times a shift. He pokes when you don't even realize he's there. He pokes, and he pokes, and he -- AAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He pokes 'til I want to grab that freakin' hand and take him down!
Peter is a total bully. At least, that's what I'm telling myself lately. Supposedly, if you ignore a bully, they'll stop bullying right? I dunno, it's been a while since I was in elementary school, and I sure as hell haven't gotten knocked up and popped out a kid lately, so perhaps I'm a little out-of-date on this whole bullying issue. Point is, the last shift I worked with him, he poked me yet again -- always on my side at the base of my ribcage -- and what did I do? I ignored him. I kept walking. I didn't look at him, didn't react to him, didn't appear to have noticed that I had just been touched at all. And guess what? That was the only time I got poked that day! It was glorious. Only one poke!
Peter is a creepy beyond that, too. He'll walk up to the bar while I'm alone making drinks and demand, "Smile!" Usually I just glare and give a half-assed sarcastic smile and continue ignoring him as he continues, "C'mon. That wasn't a real smile. I want to see you smile. Give me a nice one. C'mon, smile for me!" But one night as he was leaving, I accidentally smiled at him as I said good night (What can I say? I was glad he was leaving!), and he immediately stops, exclaiming, "There's a smile! That one was mine, right? That smile was just for me! That was my smile!" *shudder* Unfortunately, Peter acts this way towards several other female servers as well, Eloise and Hermione included. Bless their little hearts.
Peter introduced himself to me as Roberto Estevez. Which is not his name. I mean, the guy looks completely white. So between that fact and the facetious tone in his voice, I knew he was kidding. He didn't ever tell me his actual name. So I just continued to call him Roberto Estevez. I kinda liked that name. It was fun. On the flip side, he didn't remember my name either at first. There is another female bartender at my restaurant whose name begins with the same letter as mine and people often address me by her name accidentally, so honestly, at this point I respond to her name just as readily as to my own. So "You know that's not my name."
"Well you don't know my name, do you?" Snarky. Always snarky.
But matter-of-factly, I stated, "Actually yes I do. It's [ Peter ]."
"No, it's not! My name is James!"
"No, it's not. Your name is [ Peter ]. Every time you ring in a drink for me to make, your name prints on the bottom of the ticket. So unless you go by a middle name, or have some weird situation going on, the name you provided [ our restaurant ] to legally obtain employment is [ Peter ]. Besides, I wouldn't want you to be named James."
Peter is visibly defeated by my smartypants-ness. "Why not?"
"Because I just broke up with a James."
Bug-eyed, Peter scurried off and never called me her name again, nor challenged me regarding his name. Mental happy dance ensues.
Peter apparently believed that this episode brought about the need for me to have a nickname. I was unaware of this need. But the next shift I bartended with Peter serving, he asked me if he could call me "Bar Wench." I replied that he could not. An hour later, "How 'bout 'Bar B*tch?'" Definitely not. Another hour passes in this quest for a nickname, and Peter has now grown the balls to strut up to my bar, slam his hand down forcefully, and state quite emphatically, "Well, it's either be 'Bar Wench' or 'Bar B*itch.' Which is it gonna be?"
"Neither," I snapped as I continued working. "'Bar B*tch is offensive. And 'wench' is already the nickname a friend of mine calls me. He has a very special place in my heart, and only he gets to call me 'wench.'" (Oddly enough, that is true). Again, Peter is visibly defeated. And again, I'm doing a mental happy dance as he slinks away. A few hours later, he comes up with another nickname suggestion that is so random, so hilarious, so wonderful, that I joyfully allow it:
Superstar McAwesomeville.
For once in my life, I have no words.
[ degreed waitress ]
Saturday, February 9, 2013
You said what?
Pico de gallo. Pronounced "peek-oh day guy-oh" by anyone who's been here in Texas longer than five minutes.
Or so I thought.
Nope. Clive the old fart gringo called up last night to order some "kway-sa-dill-luhs" to-go. Oh, but "hold the "pike-oh dey gal-loh. And you can give me some sour cream."
Facepalming must be my favorite thing about taking phone to-go orders, really; I mean, I do it so often..
[ degreed waitress ]
Or so I thought.
Nope. Clive the old fart gringo called up last night to order some "kway-sa-dill-luhs" to-go. Oh, but "hold the "pike-oh dey gal-loh. And you can give me some sour cream."
Facepalming must be my favorite thing about taking phone to-go orders, really; I mean, I do it so often..
[ degreed waitress ]
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
What planet are you from, lady?
Miss Picky at table 82 complained about literally every part of her meal. Some highlights...
First, she complained about her Strawberry Lemonade: "These strawberries aren't fresh. I want fresh strawberries." Despite multiple explanations, she still apparently couldn't comprehend that we don't even have fresh strawberries, only a thawed strawberry compote. Somehow, this required a manager.
Then, she sent this salad back for being "too brown and wilty."
Huh?
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