Dear
Horrible Restaurant Guests:
Let’s
make one thing clear from the very beginning; we are not friends. I will gladly
serve you and your mistress a porterhouse, in a restaurant that you deem too
nice to bring your actual wife, because I make pretty decent money doing so.
Just because I do it with a smile and give a fake laugh to your corny jokes,
does not mean I enjoy your company in the least bit. Don’t get me wrong there
are a lot of people who come in to eat everyday that are pleasant, and I will
go out of my way to make sure they have the best dining experience possible,
you are not one of them.
I
can tell who you are a lot of the time before you even sit down. Strutting into
the dining room as if the ground your feet come in contact with turns to gold.
Of course you turn down the first table because it’s not a booth in a corner;
our restaurant seats 500 people on a Saturday, we have 4 booths in corners that
seat between four and ten people. No you and your significant other who is
beginning to look like a horse from all the face-lifts cannot have one since
you didn’t even have a reservation and its peak hours. This table is going to
take up maybe two hours of your entire life, suck it up, or next time plan
better; we take reservations for a reason.
Then
the nightmare continues as I greet your table. “How are we doing this evening,
welcome t…” “I’ll have a Grey Goose martini straight up, bone dry, chilled, and
she’ll have a Pinot Grigio.” I fight back the urge to tell you to shut the fuck
up and let me finish mid sentence, solely because my bills don’t pay
themselves. “Would she like Riff or Santa Margarita?” “No Pinot Grigio,” you
exclaim as if I’m the dumb one in this scenario. They’re both Pinot Grigios;
pick one.
Reciting
you the specials becomes another unnecessarily tough task. Listen, there’s a
ton of specials, they take a long time to say and explain. Not only that, I
also have to say them to the six other tables in my section. So I don’t need
you interrupting after each one because it gave you a flashback to this one
pointless time that no one in your party even cares about, let alone me who
just wants you to have an emergency where you have to leave and I can get a new
table in your place.
After
dealing with a grueling two hours of your bullshit to the point where if I
continue to fake smile, my face may crack, you pay your bill. Surprise,
surprise, not only do you act like a piece of shit, you also tip like one. I
don’t give a fuck what Oprah says about today’s economy, ten percent is never acceptable,
unless you got bad service. I’ve been doing this for years, I’m sadly a
professional, and you’ll never get ten percent service from me. We servers tip
out everyone and their mothers, the busser, the food-runner, the bar, the
barista, the glass polisher. Your measly ten percent just dropped to about
three percent. Do the math, if you’re leaving seven percent or less, I just
paid for you to dine at my table.
It’s
really not a difficult concept, your mother always told you to treat people the
way you would want to be treated yourself. That lesson did not get valeted with
your car, nor checked with your coat. When you come out to eat act like you
have some class, not like you’re simply a pompous ass.
Good
Riddance.
