"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....