One thing, in particular, that I do not miss about serving: shitty children.
Like I've said in a previous entry, I love children. I plan on having 9 of them, and making some sort of sports team. Or, I could have 12 spawns, get my own TV show, and be known as the "angry nerd mom". Sounds good to me.
However, my children will not be the result of that scary ginger kid from Problem Child and Satan. There have been times when I watched a table with children be sat in my section, and I silently asked whatever supreme being was listening that day, "why? Am I being tested? Did I do something horrible in a past life to deserve this?" I sucked it up, and walked up to the table, as my hopes and dreams shriveled up and died within my soul.
This table that sticks out in my mind was a mother with two young boys. From the first glance, they looked okay. The mother looked tired, which is understandable. Young boys can be a pain in the ass. From the moment those little brats opened their mouths and barked out their order, I immediately understood the look in her eyes. It wasn't fatigue; it was desperation.
The two ankle biters ordered their food, and I hurriedly put it in. The faster I would put it in, the faster it would come out, and the faster they would be out of my section.
But, as my luck would have it, we got a rush. My section quickly filled up, and I was too busy (thankfully) to be annoyed by the two monsters. Their food comes up, and I run it out. It had been about ten, maybe twelve minutes. As I run to the table and start handing out the food, the younger one rolls his eyes. "Finally," he huffed. I paused for a millisecond and attempted to bore a hole in his forehead with my glare. Unfortunately, my mana must have been low that day, and I failed.
As much as I would've loved to stay at the table and be verbally abused by two boys under the age of 12, I rushed off and found something to do, which ended up being standing in the back telling my co-workers of the spawns.
Eventually, I realized that I should mosey on back to the table. The oldest one was laying on his back on the booth seat, kicking it. Thanks, jerk off. I'm the one who gets to scrub your grody little shoe prints off later, and God knows what is lurking on the soles of your shoes. The mom sat there, doing nothing.
Honestly women, here's the deal. You lug around the parasite within you for nine months, you squirt the kid out (or have it removed like a tumor), and you are responsible for molding said child into a responsible child, and then adult. By letting the television and 360 (if the kid has good taste) babysit him, your children will turn out to be little jerks. If I mouthed off to any adult when I was their age, I would've gotten the infamous "bathroom talk" (assuming we were in public). Trust me, those were never a good thing.
However, I feel as if this lady was in a daze. She shot me so many apologetic glances, which I appreciated. However, puppy dog eyes will not lower my blood pressure. You telling your kids to shut the hell up, will.
She left a huge tip, though. I imagine she felt sorry for me. I wish I could've tipped her though; she needed a pick me up. Props to you, lady.
November 9, 2011
October 13, 2011
BOOB MONEY ._.
It's been a while since I've last posted, mainly due to writers block. There are so many ideas running through my mind, and I can't decide which one to write.
I finally decided to share with you another white trash story. I'm in the Midwest, so you can bet your ass that there's a wiiiiiiide variety of different types of white trash (there are many different types, but that's another entry).
They seemed normal enough. Fat white mom, trashy kid, and I think there was a husband..or some sort of guy. I don't know. I've tried to forget this memory, but like herpes, it keeps coming back to me.
Their meal went innocently enough. We gave each other shit, joked around, talked about the weather and some current TV shows. They were hilarious. When they asked, I dropped off their check, and chuckled to myself. I worried that I had made an error in judgement about the type of people they were…but that thought was short lived.
I'm standing at the server station, putting in my credit card tips into the POS (funny thing- it's actually called a POS. The name serves it well), when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and it's the fat lady, holding out her receipt, and it's obvious that she wants to pay. I'm in the middle of saying "I'll be right th--", when she reaches her hand down the front of her shirt…into her bra…and pulls out a wad of money. She counts it out, and hands me the wrinkled bills. Oh, and they were wet.
The look on my face was probably priceless. I don't remember if I stood there in shock, but I'm pretty sure I recall her saying to keep the change. After I realized that I was holding sweaty boob money, I ran to the cashier's register, and switched out the money, and stayed away from getting change from them for the rest of the night.
I washed my hands profusely after that; however, my soul will forever be tainted.
Wet money is one of the most revolting things on this earth. We all know dirty money is, containing anything and everything, such as blood, fecal matter, urine, cocaine, and probably ebola. Why would you want that anywhere near your body? Also, why carry it in your bra, of all places? Why not pockets? Purse? Clutch? Jesus, give it to someone else who you're with, instead of traumatizing your poor server.
The lady had balls of steel for doing that in front of me, though. If she would've done it at the table and I never knew, I would be a much happier person. Thanks for ruining my life, lady.
Word to the wise: do not keep money in any crevices (everyone who knows me know how hard it was for me to type that vile word) that you wouldn't want people touching. This includes inside your goddamn bra.
I finally decided to share with you another white trash story. I'm in the Midwest, so you can bet your ass that there's a wiiiiiiide variety of different types of white trash (there are many different types, but that's another entry).
They seemed normal enough. Fat white mom, trashy kid, and I think there was a husband..or some sort of guy. I don't know. I've tried to forget this memory, but like herpes, it keeps coming back to me.
Their meal went innocently enough. We gave each other shit, joked around, talked about the weather and some current TV shows. They were hilarious. When they asked, I dropped off their check, and chuckled to myself. I worried that I had made an error in judgement about the type of people they were…but that thought was short lived.
I'm standing at the server station, putting in my credit card tips into the POS (funny thing- it's actually called a POS. The name serves it well), when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and it's the fat lady, holding out her receipt, and it's obvious that she wants to pay. I'm in the middle of saying "I'll be right th--", when she reaches her hand down the front of her shirt…into her bra…and pulls out a wad of money. She counts it out, and hands me the wrinkled bills. Oh, and they were wet.
The look on my face was probably priceless. I don't remember if I stood there in shock, but I'm pretty sure I recall her saying to keep the change. After I realized that I was holding sweaty boob money, I ran to the cashier's register, and switched out the money, and stayed away from getting change from them for the rest of the night.
I washed my hands profusely after that; however, my soul will forever be tainted.
Wet money is one of the most revolting things on this earth. We all know dirty money is, containing anything and everything, such as blood, fecal matter, urine, cocaine, and probably ebola. Why would you want that anywhere near your body? Also, why carry it in your bra, of all places? Why not pockets? Purse? Clutch? Jesus, give it to someone else who you're with, instead of traumatizing your poor server.
The lady had balls of steel for doing that in front of me, though. If she would've done it at the table and I never knew, I would be a much happier person. Thanks for ruining my life, lady.
Word to the wise: do not keep money in any crevices (everyone who knows me know how hard it was for me to type that vile word) that you wouldn't want people touching. This includes inside your goddamn bra.
October 3, 2011
Poop tables…why?!
If you're an avid reader of this blog (I actually think that I am the only one, so far. Well, my fiance also; mainly because I make him read each and every entry after I post it), you will know that my previous entry was about some white trash family letting their kid shit all over a chair. Kind of. More, or less. Anyways.
There are so many things I could say about white trash tables, but I don't have all night. I'll just bitch about something else they do that irks me.
The restaurant I worked at has a changing table in the bathroom. Both bathrooms, actually. Let me repeat. Changing tables. Used for changing a diaper or other types of bottoms that are worn over the genital and asshole region. I'll even break it down for you:
Am I correct by saying that this isn't a hard concept to grasp? Honestly. If you're a woman, you carried this child within your body for 9 (or close to) months, and then you pushed the kid out of your vagina (or got it removed, like a tumor). I assume that you feed the child, bathe him or her, dress them, etc. You should know how to change a diaper.
Some people just simply cannot grasp this idea. They leave the dirty diaper on the changing station, or leave numerous paper pads all over the place (did they throw a goddamn party? What is this?), or a combination of both. Sometimes, if the server who has to check the bathrooms is lucky, they leave the diaper and the dirty wipes. This is not pleasant for anybody.
But, at least they're taking their kid into the bathroom. The thing that people do, mainly white trash tables, that bother me so fucking much is change their kid at the table. At. The. Table. The same table that you are eating off of. What if the table busser/whoever the hell wipes the table down did a shitty job (no pun intended)? Because of some jackass who can't figure out how to change their child in private (because nobody wants to see that shit [once again, no pun intended]), there very well may be fecal matter on that table. The same table that we put the silverware on; chances are that silverware is wrapped in a napkin for your convenience. Now, imagine taking that silverware roll up that has been sitting on an infected table, and wiping your mouth with it. You just literally wiped your mouth with shit.
I don't care what the fuck you do at home. Change your kid on the counter while you're preparing dinner, for all I care. You're not risking anyones health but your own (unless you're throwing a dinner party). Risk your health all you want. Then again, you're risking your child's health, if you put the bottles on the counter. Thinking about this pisses me off.
I've seen posts on this website about annoying and shitty parents (with Facebook statuses. It's hilarious). One of them was a mother being like "(this restaurant) didn't have a changing table, so I changed (kids name)'s diaper on the table! LOL!" Yeah bitch, that's hilarious. Why don't you go lick an outhouse seat? Because that's pretty much what people are doing after you leave. Fuck you.
Yes, I understand that some restaurants don't have changing tables in their bathrooms (which is ridiculous). If you don't like it, changing your kid's diaper on the table top isn't going to change that. Every corporate restaurant has a website, and on the websites are ways to contact the higher ups. This is where you say how much bullshit it is, and how you'll never return, and how you'll tell all of your friends and family and they'll never go back, etc. Not spreading dookie all over a table.
If a zombie apocalypse happens because of some weird mutated poop germ, it's your fault.
There are so many things I could say about white trash tables, but I don't have all night. I'll just bitch about something else they do that irks me.
The restaurant I worked at has a changing table in the bathroom. Both bathrooms, actually. Let me repeat. Changing tables. Used for changing a diaper or other types of bottoms that are worn over the genital and asshole region. I'll even break it down for you:
- Pull on the handle at the top, pulling towards you. This folds down, so there is a shelf, if you will, that you can balance the baby on. Make sure he or she doesn't roll off.
- On the back of the changing table (the part that is against the wall), there is a little compartment in the middle. These have paper pads that you can place down to try to avoid fecal matter/urine/vomit/blood/whatever other bodily fluids to seep out on the changing table.
- Change your kid, as you would.
- Pick up the child, and the paper pad that you put down. Most importantly, pick up the damn dirty diaper that you just took off, and hopefully rolled up.
- Close the changing station. Basically, you do what you did to open it, but opposite. Push the shelf thing up. It folds up, and closes.
- THROW THE DIAPER AWAY. There are trash cans in the bathroom for many reasons, this being one of them.
- Wash your goddamn hands before touching anything else. Make sure to scrub.
- Dry your hands, and get the hell out.
Am I correct by saying that this isn't a hard concept to grasp? Honestly. If you're a woman, you carried this child within your body for 9 (or close to) months, and then you pushed the kid out of your vagina (or got it removed, like a tumor). I assume that you feed the child, bathe him or her, dress them, etc. You should know how to change a diaper.
Some people just simply cannot grasp this idea. They leave the dirty diaper on the changing station, or leave numerous paper pads all over the place (did they throw a goddamn party? What is this?), or a combination of both. Sometimes, if the server who has to check the bathrooms is lucky, they leave the diaper and the dirty wipes. This is not pleasant for anybody.
But, at least they're taking their kid into the bathroom. The thing that people do, mainly white trash tables, that bother me so fucking much is change their kid at the table. At. The. Table. The same table that you are eating off of. What if the table busser/whoever the hell wipes the table down did a shitty job (no pun intended)? Because of some jackass who can't figure out how to change their child in private (because nobody wants to see that shit [once again, no pun intended]), there very well may be fecal matter on that table. The same table that we put the silverware on; chances are that silverware is wrapped in a napkin for your convenience. Now, imagine taking that silverware roll up that has been sitting on an infected table, and wiping your mouth with it. You just literally wiped your mouth with shit.
I don't care what the fuck you do at home. Change your kid on the counter while you're preparing dinner, for all I care. You're not risking anyones health but your own (unless you're throwing a dinner party). Risk your health all you want. Then again, you're risking your child's health, if you put the bottles on the counter. Thinking about this pisses me off.
I've seen posts on this website about annoying and shitty parents (with Facebook statuses. It's hilarious). One of them was a mother being like "(this restaurant) didn't have a changing table, so I changed (kids name)'s diaper on the table! LOL!" Yeah bitch, that's hilarious. Why don't you go lick an outhouse seat? Because that's pretty much what people are doing after you leave. Fuck you.
Yes, I understand that some restaurants don't have changing tables in their bathrooms (which is ridiculous). If you don't like it, changing your kid's diaper on the table top isn't going to change that. Every corporate restaurant has a website, and on the websites are ways to contact the higher ups. This is where you say how much bullshit it is, and how you'll never return, and how you'll tell all of your friends and family and they'll never go back, etc. Not spreading dookie all over a table.
If a zombie apocalypse happens because of some weird mutated poop germ, it's your fault.
October 1, 2011
White trash…how we love thee.
You see them walk in the door, and you pray that the greeter does not seat them in your section. The stained pajama pants. The stained shirt that is two sizes too large. Hair thrown up in a scrunchie. Dear God…no. It's the white trash table that we all fear.
The greeter sends you a look that's mixed with pity, sorrow, and fear, as she sits them in the booth that they will undoubtedly occupy for a good two hours. There goes your table turn over.
We've all had these tables, right? I've had a couple golden ones that stick out in my head. Most of the time, it involves an overweight mother, skinny, strung out male figure (oldest son? Boyfriend? Husband? Meth dealer? We'll never know), and usually, I see the teenage daughter. The Kurt Cobain shirt looks dumb as fuck on you, by the way. The crack your mom was on when you were conceived hadn't been made yet when that CD came out.
I'll give her props. Her grill was slightly jacked up, and the gap wasn't that noticeable. From a distance. In fact, from a distance, she was remotely pretty. As I got closer, I realized that she was a Monet- good looking from far away, and a hideous mess up close. You could've fit a Tic-Tac between those things. Her bad box dye job was fading away fast, as was apparent by her abundance of roots showing. Sweetie, you can tell you're not a natural blonde. Bleach blonde and dark bushy eyebrows don't go well together. Don't worry, I've seen worse. You're still the prettiest girl in the trailer park.
There's also a younger child here. I'm not sure if it's the teenager's kid (I wouldn't doubt it), or the fat mess of a human sitting there, in Mountain Dew pajama pants and a shirt that appears to have been used to clean car tires. The kid is young enough to belong to either of them. Neither of them shout out motherly instincts, so it's hard to tell.
I have nothing against kids. In fact, I love them. I would willingly take tables with children, because I love interacting with them, and the parents love seeing that. I make a minimum of 20% off of tables with children. But, this kid…
For one. Please wash your kid! This poor little guy had the remnants of something sticky on his face, perhaps from earlier in the day. Or yesterday. Who knows. Not only was his face dirty, his hands were disgusting. I don't know where the hell his hands had been. They looked like he had used them to hand wash (or warsh, as they say it) an oil rig. Whatever, though. He's not my kid. In fact, at this point, I'm still not sure who the hell he belongs to.
They ask about beer, so I look at their IDs. I see that they're from a small town close to here, so I automatically tell them that we have Busch Lt. (the hillbillies Cristal). Boom, sold. Their food is put into the computer, beers are set down, and I am on my merry way to bullshit with my other tables.
Towards the end, I drop off their check, and tell them to have a good night. I had been putting off going to the bathroom for the entire night, and now that I had a chance, I was going to pee. FINALLY. I'm sitting in there (because I'm a lady), feeling euphoric almost, until I hear two familiar voices. The two women at the table.
They're talking to the little boy, who had apparently shit his pants. Well, whatever. Kids do that. I listen as the younger one chastising the little guy, and who am I to judge? The kid was old enough to talk, so he could've asked to go to the bathroom. I've always found it awkward to walk out of the stall while people from my table are in the bathroom, so I sit and linger in the stall until they leave. It gives me time to check my Facebook and read some FMLs before I have to get back to work.
They do whatever they're doing, and I hear them say something about how he won't be able to wear 'big boy underwear' anymore, if he keeps pooping his pants. Seems legit. They finish up, I hear the diaper station close…
no water running…
door closes.
THEY LEFT WITHOUT WASHING THEIR FUCKING HANDS. They better be gone, and they goddamn better of left cash on the table before they went to the bathroom. Fuck that. Money is dirty enough, and I know for a fact that one of them, if not both, changed a dirty….wait a minute.
They said that if he didn't stop shitting his pants, he wouldn't be wearing big boy underwear… anymore. Does that mean he was wearing them WHILE he shit his pants? Where did they go? Did he shit on the chair? Dear God.
Thankfully, they had left money on the table (around 10/%, of course), and naturally the floor around it was the mess. I kept eyeballing the one chair that he had been sitting in, looking for any trace of disgustingness, and thankfully didn't see any. I refused to sanitize that damn thing, though. A manager took care of it after I explained what I had heard, and that I refused to touch the chair until it had been cleaned. Who knows if that kid dropped a deuce when he was sitting in that chair, and how long had he been sitting in it? As far as I know, there were no traces of little boy boom boom. I'm not taking my damn chances, though.
That was a close one.
The greeter sends you a look that's mixed with pity, sorrow, and fear, as she sits them in the booth that they will undoubtedly occupy for a good two hours. There goes your table turn over.
We've all had these tables, right? I've had a couple golden ones that stick out in my head. Most of the time, it involves an overweight mother, skinny, strung out male figure (oldest son? Boyfriend? Husband? Meth dealer? We'll never know), and usually, I see the teenage daughter. The Kurt Cobain shirt looks dumb as fuck on you, by the way. The crack your mom was on when you were conceived hadn't been made yet when that CD came out.
I'll give her props. Her grill was slightly jacked up, and the gap wasn't that noticeable. From a distance. In fact, from a distance, she was remotely pretty. As I got closer, I realized that she was a Monet- good looking from far away, and a hideous mess up close. You could've fit a Tic-Tac between those things. Her bad box dye job was fading away fast, as was apparent by her abundance of roots showing. Sweetie, you can tell you're not a natural blonde. Bleach blonde and dark bushy eyebrows don't go well together. Don't worry, I've seen worse. You're still the prettiest girl in the trailer park.
There's also a younger child here. I'm not sure if it's the teenager's kid (I wouldn't doubt it), or the fat mess of a human sitting there, in Mountain Dew pajama pants and a shirt that appears to have been used to clean car tires. The kid is young enough to belong to either of them. Neither of them shout out motherly instincts, so it's hard to tell.
I have nothing against kids. In fact, I love them. I would willingly take tables with children, because I love interacting with them, and the parents love seeing that. I make a minimum of 20% off of tables with children. But, this kid…
For one. Please wash your kid! This poor little guy had the remnants of something sticky on his face, perhaps from earlier in the day. Or yesterday. Who knows. Not only was his face dirty, his hands were disgusting. I don't know where the hell his hands had been. They looked like he had used them to hand wash (or warsh, as they say it) an oil rig. Whatever, though. He's not my kid. In fact, at this point, I'm still not sure who the hell he belongs to.
They ask about beer, so I look at their IDs. I see that they're from a small town close to here, so I automatically tell them that we have Busch Lt. (the hillbillies Cristal). Boom, sold. Their food is put into the computer, beers are set down, and I am on my merry way to bullshit with my other tables.
Towards the end, I drop off their check, and tell them to have a good night. I had been putting off going to the bathroom for the entire night, and now that I had a chance, I was going to pee. FINALLY. I'm sitting in there (because I'm a lady), feeling euphoric almost, until I hear two familiar voices. The two women at the table.
They're talking to the little boy, who had apparently shit his pants. Well, whatever. Kids do that. I listen as the younger one chastising the little guy, and who am I to judge? The kid was old enough to talk, so he could've asked to go to the bathroom. I've always found it awkward to walk out of the stall while people from my table are in the bathroom, so I sit and linger in the stall until they leave. It gives me time to check my Facebook and read some FMLs before I have to get back to work.
They do whatever they're doing, and I hear them say something about how he won't be able to wear 'big boy underwear' anymore, if he keeps pooping his pants. Seems legit. They finish up, I hear the diaper station close…
no water running…
door closes.
THEY LEFT WITHOUT WASHING THEIR FUCKING HANDS. They better be gone, and they goddamn better of left cash on the table before they went to the bathroom. Fuck that. Money is dirty enough, and I know for a fact that one of them, if not both, changed a dirty….wait a minute.
They said that if he didn't stop shitting his pants, he wouldn't be wearing big boy underwear… anymore. Does that mean he was wearing them WHILE he shit his pants? Where did they go? Did he shit on the chair? Dear God.
Thankfully, they had left money on the table (around 10/%, of course), and naturally the floor around it was the mess. I kept eyeballing the one chair that he had been sitting in, looking for any trace of disgustingness, and thankfully didn't see any. I refused to sanitize that damn thing, though. A manager took care of it after I explained what I had heard, and that I refused to touch the chair until it had been cleaned. Who knows if that kid dropped a deuce when he was sitting in that chair, and how long had he been sitting in it? As far as I know, there were no traces of little boy boom boom. I'm not taking my damn chances, though.
That was a close one.
September 30, 2011
Perspective from the BOH.
I understand that you want your food out, as fast as it can be. Do you see how we are short staffed? What's his fuck never came in, the manager is too busy to jump back here, and I am sweating my non-existent balls off. This fucking shirt is thick, and it is hot. Not to mention, I have a tank top on underneath of it. The idea of this sweaty shirt actually touching my skin gives me the willies.
STOP BITCHING AT ME THROUGH THE WINDOW. I'm serious when I say that if you don't stop bitching at me, your food will take longer. Why am I serious, you ask? The more time you waste of mine, screaming at me, the more I have to talk to you and explain what I'm doing. You are taking time that I could be spending cooking your burger that you forgot to ring in.
I forget to ring in things, sometimes. I understand how it feels. Instead of screeching at me that you need it on the fly, explaining the situation calmly and asking me if I could hurry up would suffice. I understand that it sucks major dick when you forget. It makes you look like a bad server, it pisses your table off, and then the managers have to deal with the carnage caused by the shitty situation.
I understand that the normal time to cook an appetizer is usually 3-6 minutes. But, corporate decided to put one on the menu that does take longer than that. Explain it to your fucking table (it helps to learn things about the product, so you don't look like a dumbass) that it is a different type of appetizer that needs to be microwaved, and then baked for 5 minutes. So, fuck off.
See that screen right there? Yep, the one with the bright colors. Please focus your eyes, as a bug would focus it's untimely death to a bug zapper, and look at the pretty colors. Those are the orders that I have, in the order that I have them. Your order is behind the first five. That means that five orders have precedence over yours. Did you forget to ring this one in? No? Then fuck off and go kiss your tables asses, so they'll stop complaining. Remember, it's only been 7 minutes; not the 15 that they're claiming.
Take a minute, and just breathe. Go run someone else's food, so it looks like you're busy if your table sees you. Go wipe down the pop machine. Organize the straws. Fill the silverware holders. I don't give a shit what you do, as long as you get out of my face.
All FOH employees should have to be trained in the kitchen for at least a week. That way, they can get an idea of how long things take to cook, and how hectic it can get. Yeah, it's a sports bar and we mainly serve greasy appetizers and wings. For some reason, they decided that they should be 'healthier', and have wraps, salads, pizza like things, grilled chicken strips, mandarin oranges, shit like that. Those take longer to make. It takes longer to get the wings out when there are 400 of them on the screen (and that is not an exaggeration).
Before you ask--I have never messed with anyones food, and I have never seen it be done. If we drop the food on the floor, we tell the server, and we make it new. Doesn't matter if it's a burger, or not. I'm sure the table won't mind hearing that we're not going to serve them food that has been on the floor, which I'm not sure when it was even swept last, let alone mopped. They mop the floor every night when we close, and I'm pretty sure that's the only time. The cooks have been stepping into the cooler where the raw chicken is held, and where chicken blood is most likely on the floor. That chicken blood/bacteria/salmonella is now tracked all over that floor. Not to mention whatever may be crawling and fermenting on the bottom of their shoes. If I ever saw anyone serve food that has been dropped on the floor, I'd try to stop them as fast as I could. If I couldn't, I'd physically go out on the floor and make up some excuse as to why I have to take it back. They'll never know that nothing is really wrong with it, other than the fact that it has floor seasoning on it. If I saw a server spit in a drink, I'd make them drink it. Trust me, I've wanted to fuck with food or drinks of some customers that have treated me like absolute shit for no reason. But, that makes me think of that scene in the movie 'Waiting', which makes me die a little inside.
Don't think the cooks are assholes because they appear stressed. Chances are, they are. Most of the time, the FOH has never walked back in the kitchen. I've used the meat thermometer to test the temperature back there. Most of the time, it has a base temp of around 80 degrees. When you're in front of the grill, bump that up to 90. Where I worked, we weren't allowed drinks in the kitchen. Not even water. So, add in the fact that the cooks are stressed, dehydrated, and being bitched at constantly; don't even, for one second, think that they're being assholes for no reason.
Then again, if you keep badgering the BOH staff (even if it's slow), they will be dicks- just because they can.
STOP BITCHING AT ME THROUGH THE WINDOW. I'm serious when I say that if you don't stop bitching at me, your food will take longer. Why am I serious, you ask? The more time you waste of mine, screaming at me, the more I have to talk to you and explain what I'm doing. You are taking time that I could be spending cooking your burger that you forgot to ring in.
I forget to ring in things, sometimes. I understand how it feels. Instead of screeching at me that you need it on the fly, explaining the situation calmly and asking me if I could hurry up would suffice. I understand that it sucks major dick when you forget. It makes you look like a bad server, it pisses your table off, and then the managers have to deal with the carnage caused by the shitty situation.
I understand that the normal time to cook an appetizer is usually 3-6 minutes. But, corporate decided to put one on the menu that does take longer than that. Explain it to your fucking table (it helps to learn things about the product, so you don't look like a dumbass) that it is a different type of appetizer that needs to be microwaved, and then baked for 5 minutes. So, fuck off.
See that screen right there? Yep, the one with the bright colors. Please focus your eyes, as a bug would focus it's untimely death to a bug zapper, and look at the pretty colors. Those are the orders that I have, in the order that I have them. Your order is behind the first five. That means that five orders have precedence over yours. Did you forget to ring this one in? No? Then fuck off and go kiss your tables asses, so they'll stop complaining. Remember, it's only been 7 minutes; not the 15 that they're claiming.
Take a minute, and just breathe. Go run someone else's food, so it looks like you're busy if your table sees you. Go wipe down the pop machine. Organize the straws. Fill the silverware holders. I don't give a shit what you do, as long as you get out of my face.
All FOH employees should have to be trained in the kitchen for at least a week. That way, they can get an idea of how long things take to cook, and how hectic it can get. Yeah, it's a sports bar and we mainly serve greasy appetizers and wings. For some reason, they decided that they should be 'healthier', and have wraps, salads, pizza like things, grilled chicken strips, mandarin oranges, shit like that. Those take longer to make. It takes longer to get the wings out when there are 400 of them on the screen (and that is not an exaggeration).
Before you ask--I have never messed with anyones food, and I have never seen it be done. If we drop the food on the floor, we tell the server, and we make it new. Doesn't matter if it's a burger, or not. I'm sure the table won't mind hearing that we're not going to serve them food that has been on the floor, which I'm not sure when it was even swept last, let alone mopped. They mop the floor every night when we close, and I'm pretty sure that's the only time. The cooks have been stepping into the cooler where the raw chicken is held, and where chicken blood is most likely on the floor. That chicken blood/bacteria/salmonella is now tracked all over that floor. Not to mention whatever may be crawling and fermenting on the bottom of their shoes. If I ever saw anyone serve food that has been dropped on the floor, I'd try to stop them as fast as I could. If I couldn't, I'd physically go out on the floor and make up some excuse as to why I have to take it back. They'll never know that nothing is really wrong with it, other than the fact that it has floor seasoning on it. If I saw a server spit in a drink, I'd make them drink it. Trust me, I've wanted to fuck with food or drinks of some customers that have treated me like absolute shit for no reason. But, that makes me think of that scene in the movie 'Waiting', which makes me die a little inside.
Don't think the cooks are assholes because they appear stressed. Chances are, they are. Most of the time, the FOH has never walked back in the kitchen. I've used the meat thermometer to test the temperature back there. Most of the time, it has a base temp of around 80 degrees. When you're in front of the grill, bump that up to 90. Where I worked, we weren't allowed drinks in the kitchen. Not even water. So, add in the fact that the cooks are stressed, dehydrated, and being bitched at constantly; don't even, for one second, think that they're being assholes for no reason.
Then again, if you keep badgering the BOH staff (even if it's slow), they will be dicks- just because they can.
A word to the wise.
Rules for commenting:
Do NOT say my name (even the first), where I worked, where I'm talking about in any specific entry, where I live, or even the real names of anyone who was there when whatever situation I'm writing about happened.
Don't use racial slurs--it just makes you look uneducated.
Please try to use proper english and grammar. If your comment is stupid, I will attack you for using 'your' instead of 'you're'. If you're not sure what word to use, Google it. Use the simple rule. You're=you are. Example: you're going to the store=you are going to the store. Please use either I or me in the right way. Say the rest of the sentence. If the original sentence was "so and so and me want to go to the movies", that is wrong. Take the other person out, and say it out loud. Me want to go to the movies is wrong, unless you are a cave man.
I know this will inevitably happen, but hearing the "why don't you get another job" or "why don't you get a real job" has already been asked countless times. It's old news. I would explain the answers to you, but I don't want to waste my time.
Don't ask me to add you on Facebook. That would be moronic.
And please, be courteous to the other commenters. This isn't Facebook; arguments aren't entertaining. If you have that big of a problem with someone, bitch about it on their blog or something. Not mine.
That's all she wrote, folks. Hopefully you all can abide by these rules. If you have any subjects (from a cooks point of view, even; I've also done that for 5 years) that you would like me to address, by all means, bring them to my attention. I'm always up for new ideas :]
Do NOT say my name (even the first), where I worked, where I'm talking about in any specific entry, where I live, or even the real names of anyone who was there when whatever situation I'm writing about happened.
Don't use racial slurs--it just makes you look uneducated.
Please try to use proper english and grammar. If your comment is stupid, I will attack you for using 'your' instead of 'you're'. If you're not sure what word to use, Google it. Use the simple rule. You're=you are. Example: you're going to the store=you are going to the store. Please use either I or me in the right way. Say the rest of the sentence. If the original sentence was "so and so and me want to go to the movies", that is wrong. Take the other person out, and say it out loud. Me want to go to the movies is wrong, unless you are a cave man.
I know this will inevitably happen, but hearing the "why don't you get another job" or "why don't you get a real job" has already been asked countless times. It's old news. I would explain the answers to you, but I don't want to waste my time.
Don't ask me to add you on Facebook. That would be moronic.
And please, be courteous to the other commenters. This isn't Facebook; arguments aren't entertaining. If you have that big of a problem with someone, bitch about it on their blog or something. Not mine.
That's all she wrote, folks. Hopefully you all can abide by these rules. If you have any subjects (from a cooks point of view, even; I've also done that for 5 years) that you would like me to address, by all means, bring them to my attention. I'm always up for new ideas :]
September 29, 2011
"how hard IS your job"?
To start off the birth of this blog, I'd like to give a HUGE thanks to my favorite server blogger in the entire world, The Bitchy Waiter (http://thebitchywaiter.blogspot.com), for giving me the confidence and initiative to finally get the ball rolling on starting a blog. Everybody go read his blog; it'll be the best decision you make all day.
First off, I would love to address the above question. Everybody who read that sentence should've pictured that horrid lady from the movie 'Waiting'. Whoever wrote the script had that particular type of customer to a T. We've all had that person at our table. Nothing is good enough, the food came out too slow, too fast (why would anyone complain about that?), the server is the epitome of all evil, etc.
To anyone who asks how hard our job is: incredibly fucking hard. Try dealing with douchebags like you all day. I can guarantee you that if you saw someone acting the way you did at that point, you'd think they were the worlds biggest asshole. Takes one to know one, eh?
What does your job consist of? Sitting behind a desk? Wow, that sounds hard. I bet it's really tiring to sit on your ass all day, eating Cheetos and dicking around on Facebook. My job is the EXACT opposite of that. Please, go get a job where you have to stand on your feet for an undetermined amount of hours. I hope you can deal with being treated like shit by complete strangers. I especially hope that you have a strong bladder, because you're not going to be able to go to the bathroom whenever you'd like. You may want to get something to eat before you come in for your shift, because you're not going to get a chance to eat while you're here. Oh! And make sure you have as many cigarettes as you can handle before you clock in, because if you work at the place that I did, you're not allowed smoke breaks while you're on the clock. It doesn't matter if you're working a 12 hour shift. Sucks to be you.
But wait! There's more! Make sure you have a good memory, because you won't have the chance to write everything down on the guest check pad. If someone wants something, they want it NOW. No time for you to dick around and write it down, and make sure it's legible. Go ring that shit in! Run! Get to the server station before someone else does! Still running? You better be. You don't want that foam going down on the beer glass. Never serve a beer without a full head of foam. The customer will get butt hurt, and the bartender will get pissed because they have to take time to stir it up (the best trick), or to pour more to get the right amount of head on it. Shit! You're wasting time! Your table is looking around, wondering where you are. In reality, it's been 2 minutes. In their world, it has been 12. Take the real amount of time that it's been, and times it by 6. That's how long they will say it took.
Don't forget about your other tables! They are also your responsibility. No matter how hard one table is riding you, you can't spend all of your time on them. You're lucky if you only have 2 other tables. Quick! Turn around! Table 423 is trying to flag you over. They need refills. Go get 'em! Shit. Someone is running your food over to you. They're new, and have no idea where the hell they're going. The look of terror is evident in their eyes. Instead of pointing them to the table where the food needs to be ran, they plead you with their eyes to just take the food yourself. I'm a nice person, so I would do it. Now you have a large tray of hot food to run, and refills to get. How are you going to do this?
Before you want to cry, just jump out of this scenario. You just saw 1/8th of what one night could be like. Sometimes it's worse. Sometimes it's so slow, you feel like re-rolling all of the silverware for something to do. The managers won't cut you off of the floor, just in case it gets busy. You are standing around (sitting if the MOD is cool enough), making 4.35 an hour.
Welcome to my job. Yes, bitch, it's hard. Let me ask you something. Is it hard to be such an asshole?
First off, I would love to address the above question. Everybody who read that sentence should've pictured that horrid lady from the movie 'Waiting'. Whoever wrote the script had that particular type of customer to a T. We've all had that person at our table. Nothing is good enough, the food came out too slow, too fast (why would anyone complain about that?), the server is the epitome of all evil, etc.
To anyone who asks how hard our job is: incredibly fucking hard. Try dealing with douchebags like you all day. I can guarantee you that if you saw someone acting the way you did at that point, you'd think they were the worlds biggest asshole. Takes one to know one, eh?
What does your job consist of? Sitting behind a desk? Wow, that sounds hard. I bet it's really tiring to sit on your ass all day, eating Cheetos and dicking around on Facebook. My job is the EXACT opposite of that. Please, go get a job where you have to stand on your feet for an undetermined amount of hours. I hope you can deal with being treated like shit by complete strangers. I especially hope that you have a strong bladder, because you're not going to be able to go to the bathroom whenever you'd like. You may want to get something to eat before you come in for your shift, because you're not going to get a chance to eat while you're here. Oh! And make sure you have as many cigarettes as you can handle before you clock in, because if you work at the place that I did, you're not allowed smoke breaks while you're on the clock. It doesn't matter if you're working a 12 hour shift. Sucks to be you.
But wait! There's more! Make sure you have a good memory, because you won't have the chance to write everything down on the guest check pad. If someone wants something, they want it NOW. No time for you to dick around and write it down, and make sure it's legible. Go ring that shit in! Run! Get to the server station before someone else does! Still running? You better be. You don't want that foam going down on the beer glass. Never serve a beer without a full head of foam. The customer will get butt hurt, and the bartender will get pissed because they have to take time to stir it up (the best trick), or to pour more to get the right amount of head on it. Shit! You're wasting time! Your table is looking around, wondering where you are. In reality, it's been 2 minutes. In their world, it has been 12. Take the real amount of time that it's been, and times it by 6. That's how long they will say it took.
Don't forget about your other tables! They are also your responsibility. No matter how hard one table is riding you, you can't spend all of your time on them. You're lucky if you only have 2 other tables. Quick! Turn around! Table 423 is trying to flag you over. They need refills. Go get 'em! Shit. Someone is running your food over to you. They're new, and have no idea where the hell they're going. The look of terror is evident in their eyes. Instead of pointing them to the table where the food needs to be ran, they plead you with their eyes to just take the food yourself. I'm a nice person, so I would do it. Now you have a large tray of hot food to run, and refills to get. How are you going to do this?
Before you want to cry, just jump out of this scenario. You just saw 1/8th of what one night could be like. Sometimes it's worse. Sometimes it's so slow, you feel like re-rolling all of the silverware for something to do. The managers won't cut you off of the floor, just in case it gets busy. You are standing around (sitting if the MOD is cool enough), making 4.35 an hour.
Welcome to my job. Yes, bitch, it's hard. Let me ask you something. Is it hard to be such an asshole?
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