Drunken Mess...

One of the more awkward instances a restaurant employee has to deal with is knowing when to shut off an inebriated asshole. This can become very difficult because it places the employee in a situation in which the forthcoming tip is potentially jeopardized. However, it is much more worth it to jeopardize a tip as opposed to jeopardizing someone's life.

Did you know?


If a server/bartender/restaurant employee overserves a patron, and that patron goes on to kill himself, and a family of 4 in a drunken collision, then blame will fall solely on those employees involved in a court of law. This is precisely why it is very important to keep a cautious eye on these matters because, in the end, it is totally not worth it.

What makes it interestingly tricky is that sometimes it is almost impossible to detect when someone is intoxicated, while other times it is alarmingly obvious. Sometimes, as it pertains to the former, a person can enter a bar already on the verge of being drunk--having spent the hours prior to slugging shots and cocktails at other bars along the strip, or what have you--and it is completely possible that the ONE drink you give him is enough to send him overboard. These types of situations need a wary eye, and must be dealt with both strictly and seriously.

One night I happened to find myself involved in a situation like this:

I had been tending bar on a Saturday night at Joe's American Bar and Grill in Dedham, MA. In walks a gentleman (at least he looked like one) in his mid-fifties or so. He sits at the bar, informs us that he wants to place an order to go, and orders a Captain Morgan and coke.

Nothing suspicious about this behavior; in fact it is very commonplace, and so we didn't even think twice about this guy seemingly minding his own business.

Until...

The manager brings his food out, and places it on the bar next to him. At this point--still not providing any problems--the man extracts his credit card to pay for it all.

This is where shit hits the fan....

After he signs his slip, he balls it up and throws it directly in the face of the other bartender, and says, "fuck you!"

At this point the two of us are shocked. He proceeds to stand up, swearing at the top of his lungs telling everybody at the bar to go "fuck themselves!" As he makes for the door the female restaurant manager tries to diffuse the escalating situation--obviously we cannot let this asshole leave and injure himself or someone else. He informs her that he is staying at the Holiday Inn, directly behind the restaurant, and that no cab is necessary. Still concerned for this guy's safety, the manager offers to walk him to the Holiday Inn. Not feeling too safe about this crazy whackjob being escorted by a woman, I decide to join, as well, to oversee the whole debacle.

As the three of us make our way--the manager in front, the drunken shitbag in the middle, and me behind--the douche bag turns around, looks me in the eye, and says, "Hey what the fuck are you following me for man?!?! You gotta fuckin' problem, buddy?!"

I tell him, "No, sir! I am just helping you to your room, that's all." With the usual drunken caprice he retorts with, "Oh yea, man! No problem, brother! You're a good guy, man! We cool? We cool?" At this point I am a little concerned at how volatile of a situation this could become.

My suspicions are only confirmed when the douchebaggery of the drunken mess ignites in an incendiary inferno when we reach the front lobby of the hotel, and he looks at the manager and says, "Hey fuck you, you fucking bitch!" As he spits this vitriol he follows up by inching his way closer to her, raising his fists mightily in the air.

Fearing the safety of the manager, I drop my bullshit restaurant facade--and the customer-is-always-right shit--and place myself directly in between said asshole and my manager. I push the guy to the curb as I say, "Don't you ever raise your fucking hands to a woman again!"

With the drunken fuck-head lying flat on his ass, the manager provided the coup de grace by throwing his take-out order directly in his face. With that, the two of us slapped fives, and headed back to close the shift.

I happened to close that night only to be back the following morning to open the bar.

At around 2 in the afternoon, in walks a gentleman (except I knew he wasn't a gentleman) in his mid-fifties or so. He sits at the bar, and orders a Captain Morgan and coke.

Can you spell B-L-A-C-K O-U-T?


...Drunken Mess...

E.T. iPhone Home

The other day I was lucky enough to wait on one of the most arrogant douche-bags I've ever met.

Wow, was she a fucking winner?!

As she is sitting at the table with her ugly fucking family she demands that I "find someone" to take their picture.

I tell her, "I'd be more than happy to do it for you," and I am lying through my fucking teeth.

As she whips out her iPhone she casts a certain glare upon me, cautiously appraising my ability to operate such a device.

While placing--more like bestowing--this uncharted piece of fucking treasure into my hands, she asks, "do you know how to use these iPhones?"

Hold the phone, shithead! (Haha, literally)

Just because I work in the restaurant industry--a job in which I am subservient to your every last need--and wear a goofy fucking captain's jacket with a tacky Chip-and-Dale's bowtie, it does not mean that I am some sort of fucking idiotic peasant.

Like, honestly, am I some fucking extraterrestrial creature that has just made his maiden voyage to Earth?

I mean, do you think I live in a fucking dungeon with manacles--fucking balls-and-chains--wrapped around my legs.

What? You think I roll around with a fucking Zack Morris phone all the time?

You think that I only use a fucking landline when I make calls?

Christ, not only am I poor and underprivileged, but, apparently, I have no fucking friends within the circle of high society--either--that would ever allow me to use their iPhones.

I am just a measly, pathetic little fuck, I guess.

Little does she know, I own a fucking iPhone....

I Scream over Ice-Cream

Ok, I fucking cannot stand scooping ice-cream.

Why is that?

Well, in a day and age where technology is so advanced as to provide human beings with a phone that can basically do everything--aside from wiping one's ass--technology has failed to invent an instrument that makes extracting iced cold, ice-cream easy.

I mean I hate when some cheeky little bastard wants his ice-cream sundae for dessert.

I fucking SCREAM over ice-cream. 

I walk into the kitchen, open the small, tedious fucking freezer and HOPE that it's broken--by some miracle of God--so as to allow the ice-cream to be lukewarm, and therefore scoop easier than sour-cream.

Of course this is never the case, and so I prepare myself for battle.

I grab the infinitesimal scooper, and drive it--harder than a Mike Tyson jab--into the block of ice-cream.

...Nothing...

Now, I start to lose my temper--especially once I notice the cuffs of my shirt are stained chocolate, or coffee, or whatever the fuck.

I go at it again; nothing.

I try to leverage my whole body against the fucker. I mean, now, I am completely bent over with more than three quarters of my body inside the fucking freezer.

Again, nothing!

Fuck it, it's time to give that son-of-a-bitch the people's elbow.

I'm punching it, kicking it, elbowing it when finally the smallest fucking scoop avails itself.

Nice, now all I have to do to render a full-size serving is repeat this process a hundred times over.

Luckily, the physical exertion expended to scoop has caused a rainstorm of sweat to glide off my forehead.

The salt seems to melt the ice-cream, and--BOOM--it finally gives way.

I bring the ice-cream to the table, and the little bastard complains that he didn't order strawberry sauce.

Oh, don't worry that isn't strawberry sauce, but, rather, the blood that spewed forth after I broke my fucking hand on the ice-cream.

I mean, let's go! It's time Brookstone or Sharper Image invents some crazy geothermic fucking scoop that glides through ice-cream the way that Michael Phelps glides through water.

Breadcrumbs Belong on the Table, iPhones Don't....

Every now and then I'll spill a fucking gingerale on top of someone's bald head.

Every now and then I'll fucking boot a tray of plates and watch as they hit the ground and shatter.

Every now and then these minimal mistakes happen. Fuck, shit happens every day in every profession. 

Am I sorry for these mishaps? 

No! I don't give a fuck! 

Am I sorry that--in my manic haste to do 1,000 things at once--I spilled your precious martini all over the table, and watched as it flooded the shit out of your precious iPhone?

No! Because--like I said--I don't give a fuck, and I certainly don't have any sympathy for you. 

Because....

Silverware, glasses, plates, and breadcrumbs belong on the table; iPhones don't. 

I mean, customers all too often regard their waitstaff as mindless, stupid fucking assholes to begin with anyways, so I don't understand why they would ever trust their $650 dollar piece of equipment on a table  where the exchange of food and drink is all too often being made. 

Besides, what kind of an arrogant asshole thinks it's okay to have his phone stick out like a malignant tumor? Apparently he is okay with the rude, pompous message that he is sending to not only his company, but the fellow dining customers in the restaurant. And, don't think it's okay to answer that son-of-a-bitch in the middle of the dining room.

I mean, there's a reason why bathrooms exist apart from the dining room; and that's because NO ONE wants to deal with your shit. So, piss off somewhere else. 

Thanks 

Not-So-Merry A Time of Year

While this is the preferred season of the year for many human beings--with the holidays rapidly approaching; gifts, family, friends, eggnog and brandy--it is a time that--because of the restaurant industry--I fucking despise.

Typically, the holiday season brings an abundance of business--and that is good; I am not complaining--but sometimes money isn't everything. You could tell me, right now, that I am going to make 8 grand over the course of the next 2 months, and I still wouldn't give a flying fuck!

As waiters, we are required to work Thanksgiving, Christmas eve, and both New Year's eve and New Year's day. In this way, our lives are forfeited for the happiness of others. I wake up on each holiday at 9 a.m., eat a quick breakfast, make a few obligatory phone calls, then head to the restaurant to work a 10 hour shift. My holiday feasting is usually done on the fly--sometimes not at all.

So with that being said, I think it is fair to speak on behalf of all restaurant employees when I say to holiday customers, "show some fucking courtesy, patience, and respect to those that work tirelessly on holidays to give your family a pleasant experience."


Because....

If it were up to us, we would be home with our loved ones; laughing, joking, pigging out, watching football, catching a sick buzz, and not having a single fucking worry in the world--especially one that pertains to whether or not you received your turkey dinner with ALL dark meat, or whatever-the-fuck.

2 Mass-Ave Bums Chew-and-Screw, Almost!

A couple of Mass-Ave bums came into the restaurant on Sunday night. Now, from the onset of their arrival, it was clear that they were a little misplaced; I mean--fuck--they stuck out like sore thumbs. One--who clearly didn’t graduate from Harvard, although his hooded sweatshirt offered otherwise--had a vicious, grizzly red beard that covered half his face. The other--who had a gait presumably altered by alcohol consumption--sported a pair of wonderful, fingerless mittens; both were decked out in jackets that could dub as parachutes. 

As they sat at the table--hunched over in despair--I approached them with a certain neutrality. Hey, bums gotta eat too! Let’s not jump to conclusions, yet! I kindly took their order, which was 2 plates of stuffed sole, and served them the complimentary bread, butter, and mushrooms. After they devoured the 2 pieces of bread, they asked for more, and more, and more. After they had enough yeast in their stomachs to sustain a distillery, I brought them their soles. The food disappeared in seconds as food debris smattered about in the air. Newburg sauce dangled like tinsel in Grizzly Adams’ beard, while a pool of shimmering butter spewed off the other guy’s chin. 

An ecstatic--bordering perverse--look gleamed in each other’s eyes. This could have been attributed to the vitreous effects of alcohol, the pure gluttony just exercised, or, more pertinently, to the idea that was undoubtedly brewing in their heads. 

I placed the bill amongst the remaining scree of breadcrumbs and saliva, and waited nearby, vigilantly monitoring the tailbones of my bums. 

Bummer!

I noticed the only thing green at the table, was the mutated plaque in between the teeth of bum number 1; the only Franklin being waved around was the one belonging to the batter’s glove bum number 2 was wearing around his right hand. 

Red Flags started to erupt as bum number 1--Grizzly Adams--took off, in a manic haste, towards the front door. Then, it hit me: how ironic was it that 2 creatures, such as those, would be feeding on sole--when in fact there was nothing soulful about their actions. Bum number 1 reached his demise as he smacked into the front door in a cataclysmic collision. Just as he fell to the earth, his pants, likewise, fell from his hips to his ankles. Quickly, he recovered just in time to make a run for it. As he did, I could hear him screaming, “I’m gonna get you!!! Sleep with one-eye open!!!” 

Taking Bum number 1’s lead, bum number 2 tried to escape by running for the front door. However, a phalanx of servers--myself included--tripped him up enough to land him directly on his ass. Wow, what a pain in the bum?! He sat there--in a submissive bow of defeat--long enough for the cops to arrive and apprehend him.

This, surely, had to have been some kind of karmic punishment, punishing my inability--my downright refusal--to give spare change to the Mass-Ave Bums; for if I had been contributing to their alms, then maybe they could have afforded a night out on the town. Damn! 

Schizophrenic Psychopaths

Restaurant waiters are nothing more than schizophrenic psychopaths.

We approach tables with a bullshit facade--in hopes of pursuing that 20% tip--when, in actuality, we retreat to the confines of the kitchen (which is a safe haven) only to verbally bash-the-shit out of the asshole customers.

Yea, we're like fucking guerillas: we'll smile to your face, shake hands, and kiss babies, but it's all smoke and mirrors, people. We're really in the kitchen fucking crucifying you like the schizophrenic psychopaths we are; making fun of your hideous clothing, your ugly fucking faces, your idiotic children, your horrible parenting skills, your fucking lame conversations, your fat, gluttonous eating tendencies.

Speaking of 'horrible parenting skills,' tell your kids that the salt-and-paper shakers are used solely for enhancing taste, and not as fucking musical instruments. Also, tell your kids to sit down and shut the fuck up for once.

But as soon as we conclude our venomous, vituperative tirades--as we kick open the kitchen door with our trays stocked high--it's back to smiles and polite pleasantries.

Thank God for the fucking kitchen.

Another way in which we are schizophrenic psychopaths is that we all bitch-and-moan about not getting tables only to fucking bitch-and-moan when we do get tables. I mean, what the fuck is this all about?

"So-and-so is making all the fucking money! They're getting tables left and right; what the fuck is going on here? I've only had two deuces--fuck!"

"What the fuck? Now they give me a table? I don't even wanna take it! Fuck this shit! I just wanna go home!"

That--right there--is a standard conversation held by a schizophrenic psychopath waiter/waitress.

We're all crazy; take notice!

"We're Gonna Be Here All Night"

I love the table that sits down, looks you right in the eyes, and says "we're gonna be here all night, so don't rush us."

Okay, let me go grab the fucking air mattress, the fucking popcorn, the fucking case of beer, the fucking nail polish, and the fucking Friends DVD box-set.

It is one thing to come in to the restaurant and thoroughly enjoy yourself. Fuck, if you're going to stay for hours that's fine (it really isn't but whatever), but don't fucking make that clear to the entire wait staff as soon as you sit your asses down.

And, if you are going to stay the 'whole night,' you better understand you're going to pay rent for your inhabitancy. What? You think fucking money grows on trees? You think it's completely acceptable to occupy my table all night and get by solely on paying the 15-20% gratuity on the bill?

Well, you got another thing coming to you--assholes!

And, if you're interested in shacking up--go to a fucking resort spa, people! This isn't a Holiday Inn!

And when it's time to pay, don't you dare take that fucking bill and sit on it, or put it under the clutches of your elbows, or completely leave it sitting there for hours without even looking at it. Pay the fucking bill in a timely manner and get the fuck out of the restaurant.

Restaurants: Home to Junkies and Seagulls

Why is it that every restaurant has its surplus of junkies and seagulls?

Seriously, I have worked in the restaurant business for over 6 years now (divided evenly between 2 separate restaurants) and I have dealt with numerous fellow employees that suffer from the urge to junk, as well as the urge to eat other people's left-over junk.

Whether it's the alcoholic employee that shows up to work half-in-the-wrapper; breath, a ferocious mixture of dewars and tobacco, or the drug addict junkie that runs up to the bathroom midshift to get his torpid fix, there never seems to be a shortage of sub-human restaurant employees.

Actually, showing up to the restaurant hammered nowadays seems only to be the recreational, acceptable thing to do. What's more radical is to show up to work in a swirl of Oxycontin-induced lethargy (mostly heroine though because it's vastly cheaper), cheeks sunken in with a dermis made tawny and sallow, and bloodshot eyes that roll like bowling balls into the back of one's head.

These people downright disgust me. And what's worse is that their presence in the restaurant creates a viral hot-zone. Yeah, let me share spoons with a crackhead.

How do you spell hadgojsgpad? I'm sorry-- that was supposed to be H-E-P-A-T-I-T-I-S  C.

I mean do you want some junkie handling your food?? Most definitely not!

And did you ever stop to think what happens to your left-overs when you hand them over to the junkies and seagulls (sometimes one in the same)?

Well, all too often I notice, among my travels throughout the kitchen, the junkie-seagull/seagull gnawing away at the detritus of saliva-drizzled crab cakes, scallops, shrimp, steaks, and lobsters.

Now, the sordid human it takes to engage in this type of pigging-out isn't exactly concerned with etiquette--as you can imagine--and so inhales this delicious fare using nothing other than his grimy, filthy fingers.

Mmhmm, finger-lickin' good!

And because they are in such a rush so as to avoid detection by other normal human beings, they skedaddle out of the kitchen rarely ever cleaning those grimy, plague-bearing phalanges.

Keep in mind those are the same fingers that typically garnish your drinks, handle your silverware, and touch your money! Ah, YIKES!!!

Makes you wonder, doesn't it?

No Strings Attached?

In walks this hooker.

She is six feet tall and blonde.

She is wearing a dress that barely covers her boobs and ass.

She is nasty.

She is accompanying a gentleman dressed in fancy business attire. 

As she is walking towards the bathroom, I am approaching the service bar area to collect my table's drinks. 

Puke begins to foment in the edges of my mouth when I take notice of a tampon string hanging out of this woman's dress.

It would be much appreciated, lady, if you never came back to my restaurant. Also, no one is interested in seeing your period paraphernalia on display, PERIOD! 

Check Out Ten Tables

I'm going to make this short and sweet.

If you haven't been to Ten Tables Restaurant in Jamaica Plain, Cambridge, or Provincetown: Go as soon as you get the chance!!

The food is spectacular. The service is excellent. The ambience is immeasurably warm.

Check out what Ten Tables is all about...

Ten Tables Restaurant

Bang For Your Buck....

Hey, listen! Times are tough economically. As a restaurant waiter, I know this just as well as the next guy. People aren't spending and those that do spend seem to be fiscally conservative in the tipping procedure.

Here's a tip for you:

You want to get great food for free?

Here's how:

Go into any Joe's American Bar and Grill location (they can be found all along the east coast from Paramus, New Jersey to Boca Raton, Florida), order whatever it is you would like to eat, finish it, and then complain that it all sucked.

When the manager asks why you didn't say anything earlier, DON'T BACK DOWN. Tell the manager that you didn't feel "comfortable complaining" and that you "didn't want to get the server in trouble."

NEVER, NEVER, NEVER complain about the service when executing this stunt, unless you want the poor bastard to get fired. These companies live by the "spite your nose to save your face" mantra, and, in fact, will terminate that server there on the spot. If it just so happens that the service, coincidentally, does suck....then roast him or her. Fuck it! Right?

Companies like these are so guest-oriented that they will DO anything and EVERYTHING to preserve that clientele, even if said clientele is a HUGE, GIGANTIC PAIN in the ass.

So, have a fantastic night on the town by ripping off these corporate pricks.

A little Food For Thought (literally):

Notable menu items include:

NY Sirloin Strip
Chicken Piccatta
Grilled Salmon
Prime Rib
Steak Tips
Chicken Milanese

Apple Crisp
Charles River Pie
Strawberry Cheesecake

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

A lot of times, restaurant servers judge tables, especially if they're foreign.

"Oh, these people don't know how to tip, I'm gonna get fucked over!"

Well, it doesn't pay to generalize like this. In fact, it's downright disgusting. Don't ever accept that a table is going to act a certain way or be predisposed to tipping (or not tipping at all) because of their ethnicity.

Actually, did you ever stop to think that maybe you got a shitty tip because you gave them shitty service because you automatically gave up on them before they even stood a chance? This is what I like to call the self-fulfilling prophecy. Servers automatically assume the table's going to suck so they automatically shut down their hospitality capabilities, thereby receiving the tip they predicted they were going to get.

Give every table the same amount of service regardless of their look.

Today, I had a party of French people. A very pleasant, married couple. When I first started the party, surrounding servers said, "Oh good luck with the French. They're assholes!"

I ignored the myopic, misanthropic commentary and continued to do what I do best. I waited on them hand in foot, shared pleasant conversation (at times, even, speaking broken French to them), and, generally, just took good care of them.

When it was time to pay up, the couple left $38 dollars on the $190 bill. You do the math.

Grand Exit...

I would like to share with you one of the best situations I have ever witnessed as a server in the restaurant industry. It was a Friday night and the restaurant was completely jam packed with customers. In walks 2 of the biggest asshole "regulars".

Now, before I continue, regulars come in two categories: First, those that are extremely generous, kind, and easy, as well as pleasurable, to serve. Secondly, those that are assholes. These people show up with the red carpet rolled out at their feet. They always have to have a certain table, a certain waiter, and everything needs to be done in an incredibly precise way. The "bartenders" always know them; the "managers" always know them; and the "chefs" always know, just exactly, how they like their Salmon grilled. Ironically, what these DBAG regulars DON'T know (themselves), is that everyone in the restaurant despises them. Their false sense of entitlement has disillusioned them into assuming an authority that does not exist. These people always expect anything and everything in quantities that far exceed what the "average" customer is allowed. More bread, more liquor, more attention.

Frankly, these people just suck. 

Now, having said that, let me continue with this wonderful story involving these 2 asshole regulars.

They're eating dinner with friends in the corner booth. They're making their server's life a living hell. Substituting this; adding that; changing this; changing that. Basically, just being downright rude and obnoxious.

Finally, towards the end of the dining experience, the server has had enough. Apparently, the asshole regulars have too. Completely disenchanted with their waiter, they request a manager to complain that the service is horrible. And, of course, the manager (a corporate douchebag marionette) severely reprimands the server which starts as an argument and ends in the server's termination, there on the spot.

Completely nonplussed by the whole situation the server, already having been fired, says: "Fuck This!"

He walks up to the party of assholes.

The 4 of them look back at the server as he glaringly presides over the table. Now, they're all smugly smiling because their complaints rendered a free meal and, of course, the lambasting of said server. They couldn't be happier.

Until....

The server, after having paused a few seconds to allow his presence to be absorbed, calmly looks all of the DBAGS in the eyes and says:

"Folks, thank you for tonight...
(The table is still smugly smiling)

"And I have one last thing to say: GO FUCK YOURSELVES!"

Hahahaha! The collective look on these bastards' faces was of abject horror and disgust. After telling the table to fuck themselves, the server grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and smoothly walked out the front door.

Wow, what a Grand Exit....

Thank You

Before I get a bad reputation for constantly spitting venomous, invectives targeted at A-hole customers, I would like to, first, express my love for the job that I have. For the most part, I truly appreciate working in the service industry and have always taken pride in what I do.

It is, actually, BECAUSE of my passion, and devotion to my job, that I address certain issues as adamantly, and fervently, as I do.

With that being said, I will never apologize for the asshole customer. They are cancerous, morale-breaking DBAGS that need to be made aware of their violations. It is them that give the service industry a bad name. Ironically, however, it is also the service industry in which allows their behavior, if only to preserve, as well as perpetuate, the cyclical nature of the business.

It is my duty, as well as my mission, to give excellent service to every customer I wait on, on any given shift, on any given day. I have a tremendous amount of pride in what I do. However, I also have a tremendous amount of self-respect. It is not in my constitution to allow some asshole to treat me like dog shit. We, as a society, are told to always exercise self-assertion in any adverse situation we may encounter. However, the "customer is always right" mentality seeks to eliminate this self-assertion process, thereby rendering a server weak and indefensible to an array of degrading, disrespectful, and, at times, hostile behavior.

I can't stand for that and I never have. So, it is no surprise that a lot of my posts will be aimed at said DBAGS.

However, a lot of my posts will be stories that recognize the gracious efforts of awesome customers. These people make the job totally worth it. These people are WHY I do what I do. They are good-natured, good-humored people that are a pleasure to have. I am thankful to these people and the relationships I've engendered over the years.

So, to the customer that makes the job worth doing: Thank you! Keep Coming. I am honored to have you.

"Hey, I'm the Customer!"

Just the other day, I had the incredible privilege of witnessing a customer, with his elitist "We're-always-right" attitude, be stricken from the restaurant by the owner himself.

In walks a party of 2: a married couple. As they approach the maitre'd, they request a table by the window. The maitre'd responds by saying: "Well, we don't have any window tables available at the moment right now, but we can get you as close as possible." Upon hearing this, the customer retorts with a blatant lie by saying: "We were told we could reserve a window earlier today when we called to make a reservation."

Now, knowing that the restaurant NEVER reserves window seats because that, of course, would gridlock hundreds of people every night, the maitre'd calmly responds by saying: "I'm sorry, sir, but we do not reserve tables by the window. If you would like, you could have a drink at the bar and when a table by the window is available we will get you seated."

This seems to dismay the customer so much so that he adamantly counters with: "We were told we could have a window. GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER." Now, this customer clearly thinks he is in a restaurant in which he is blanketed by this false, bullshit mantra, that the "customer is always right."

Boy, is he about to get a wake-up call.

Before the maitre'd can even spit out her response, the owner jets out of his chair and confronts the 'customer'.

"Why, don't you get your act together?!"

Now, I'm sure many of you reading this (especially FoodGod) will think that this is an extremely immature approach on behalf of the owner. Well, the owner is only demonstrating that self-assertion in the restaurant is not entirely lost.

The customer now, very much engaged, says: "Hey! Don't BE RUDE!" This seems to express just how myopic this DBAG's perspective really is. Apparently, he didn't find his original comment about getting our acts together to be rude. The owner wants to remind him of this.

"I'm not being rude. You said we needed to get 'our acts together.' That's rude, is it not?"

Clearly having no other valid defense, the customer feels as though he can rely on that unforgotten mantra; that impenetrable suit of armor every asshole customer hides behind. In an attempt to exercise his "rights" as a customer that is never "wrong", he reasserts to the owner: "HEY! I'm the customer!"

to which the owner responds by saying:

"No you're not, you're leaving!"

The look on the face of this jerk was the best thing I have seen in ages. Feeling the embarrassing sting, the DBAG customer attempts one last time to assert his machismo and, thus, dominance. Heading out the front door he turns around, raises his hands high in the air, and challenges the owner to "step outside."

To that complete asshole, I recommend this:

Take your rude, the "customer-is-always-right" elitist attitude to a restaurant where you can get away with such behavior. If it is in your code to treat people like shit, I am sure you will flourish in the spineless, corporate restaurants that expend their own employees on your behalf. I suggest you go ruin the lives of helpless servers in any, and all, of the following restaurants:

Joe's American Bar and Grill
T.G.I.Friday's
Uno
Chili's
Cheesecake Factory

Thanks

Please Inform Your Customer That He Is A Complete Moron...

In a day and age where allergies to food ingredients are pandemic as well as, in some cases, life-threatening, it is extremely important restaurants have a fail-safe system in place to successfully handle such allergies.

Recently, Massachusetts legislation has required that all restaurants conspicuously post allergy awareness information for all employees to see. Similarly, it has been recommended to Guests ( which has increasingly become euphemious for "asshole customers") that they inform their server of any and all allergies before ordering their meal.

Most prevalent are the nut, shellfish, gluten, and dairy allergies. Both nut and shellfish allergies can result in death. Clearly, this is serious business that, at times, can be extremely daunting. I understand the severity of food allergies and how important it is to address them in a safe, secure way. I also think they're a complete pain in the ass. 

Why? 

Because nothing screams waiter-kryptonite more than an asshole customer that brings your entire cadence to a grinding halt, by sending you on a manic goose-hunt to retrieve all the ingredients in the Lobster Savannah. Now, I could easily say to these bastards: 'Why don't you pricks just stay home?', but that view would be too myopic. It's not their fault they've been stricken by certain food aversions (a curse I count my lucky stars not to share). I mean, they deserve to enjoy the same luxuries of the restaurant milieu just as much as the next guy. 

However, human stupidity NEVER fails to amaze me. Just as it is required for customers to inform their servers of a food allergy, it should also be required that, in so doing, a certain de rigueur should be followed. Take the stupidity of this asshole, for instance:

I work in a fine dining, seafood restaurant. A married couple is seated at a table. Approaching the table, I have a thinly veiled guise of politeness as my disposition (sadly, the service industry is prostitution in its purest form: Selling yourself before, royally, getting fucked. However, that's another blog for another time). Before I can even begin my opening, waiterly gambit, the DBAG, with an austere look on his ugly face, admonishes me of a "fatal, seafood allergy." As he so glibly informs me, he simultaneously slams his fat fist on the table and I notice an EPI pen within his clutches. 

A brief pause. Silence ensues as I, dubiously, look this maniac square in the eyes. My first instinct is to laugh hysterically. I mean, are you fucking serious? Yes, dead serious! My next instinct is to punch him square in the jaw. I've never been so misanthropic in my life. My parents should be ashamed of what I've become. 

He proceeds to order a filet mignon under the harshest instructions for preparation. "It can't be near ANY seafood. It has to be cooked in a separate oven. It has to be this, it has to be that!" How about this? How about you take your fat, miserable ass to a fucking STEAKHOUSE?!??! How does that sound? I mean the audacity on this guy is completely unparalleled to any other I've ever engaged before. At this point I am praying for anaphylaxis only to have a judge dismiss the plaintiff's attempted murder charge on the grounds of human stupidity. I mean, that's like smoking cigarettes your whole life and then suing the tobacco companies after being diagnosed with cancer. Go walk around the 93 Expressway and then sue the poor bastard that runs you over.

With that being said, it should be required that servers inform their customers when they're complete morons.

So, for today's lucrative tip: If you have a seafood allergy, or any allergy for that matter, stay the fuck away from a menu (or menu item) in which deals, predominantly, with that allergy. Your tip is not worth the emotional stress that comes with having to precariously deal with life or death situations. Seriously, if I wanted to save lives I would have become a fucking medic. Thanks!

What? You think your shit don't stink?

Working in the restaurant industry never has a shortage of crazy, bizarre moments. Whether it's an irate, intoxicated customer screaming in a drunken slur, or the Prince of Saudi Arabia showing up with his entourage and eating about 37 pounds of fried food, ironically in Boston for ailing health, there is always something happening to keep the staff entertained. However, every now and then instances may occur which are down right disgusting. So, in an unprecedented reversal of roles, let me give you, the customer- more importantly- the parent, a nice, lucrative tip: Don't let your kids shit all over the front foyer of a fine dining, seafood restaurant.

I understand that 'when you gotta go, you gotta go' but, please, see to it that the poor child makes the bathroom. If he or she doesn't: Hey, shit happens! I get it, but please do not disgrace the entire restaurant staff, as well as fellow customers, by completely dismissing it as a jocular matter, and leaving it a'smear in the middle of the front lobby for the poor dishwashers to clean up. I mean, come on now, don't you think that's pretty shitty?