Vent

I have decided that the primary reason Blogger exists is so that underpaid waitresses can bitch about their jobs.

Namely, last night I waited on a friendly acquaintance from a former job (hint: she's a waitress). So Former Coworker shows up with her new boyfriend, whom curiosity dictated I had to meet. Her old boyfriend was the sweetest creature on the planet, and everyone who knew them couldn't figure out why they broke up--until she very quickly became attached to a new fella. So last night, I talked to Former Coworker and New Fella for a bit, and discovered that New Fella is a manager at Former Coworker's current place of employment/waitressing.

So, to keep score, Allison: waiting tables on a super busy night with a trainee in tow, and Customers: two food service employees, one of whom Allison would consider a friendish.

So after a brief "how have you been" chat, New Fella orders. And God, I wish I (or he) was kidding, but he orders like this: "We'll have a medium thin half-cheese, half-pork, and go easy on the pork. You guys always put way too much pork on the pizza. Oh, and by the way, be sure not to burn it this time. The last few times we came here, you burned the pizza."

Ordering Mistake #1: Oh, poor baby. We give you too much for your money? You must have such a tough life--and, apparently, an inability to pick things off.
#2: Yeah, I'll be sure not to burn it. 'Cos I'm totally in charge of the actual mechanics of making your pizza. (That said, dammit, the cooks and managers occasionally go nuts because of Allison's rule of serving food: If I wouldn't serve this to my mother, I won't serve it to the customer. I don't ever serve anything burnt or incorrectly made unless its replacement is in the oven by the time I get to the table.)
#3: If we really always serve you terrible food, why keep coming back? And why assume that I want to know about every substandard eating experience you've ever had at the restaurant I've worked at for three years?
And #4, which is the only reason #1 and #2 qualify as Ordering Mistakes, for they would otherwise simply qualify as requests: You're being a total douchebag.

So I try to make the best of the situation and lamely make a joke about his "I think this restaurant sucks, and I still come back" attitude, placing the blame on Corporate Pizza Joint and joke-thanking him for his patience. New Fella responds with a stony stare, and Former Coworker simply squirms.

And then, fuck of all fucks, the appetizers are late. We are godawful ass-kicking busy, the phones won't stop ringing, and every time I walk past this table, New Fella does a Turn-and-Glare-Threateningly. I confront him, apologize, and say the appetizers will be out as soon as possible. New Fella responds with a stony stare, and Former Coworker simply squirms.

So I go back to the kitchen and unleash the Slightly Hysterical Queen of the Waits voice, begging the manager (who controls these things) for breadsticks for this damn table--for the third time. Within seconds, I am at their table, setting down the plates. I glance at their drinks, both of which are more than half-full. I apologize again and assure them that they have received a discount. New Fella responds with a stony stare, and Former Coworker simply squirms.

I'm putting an order into the computer when I see, out of the corner of my eye, New Fella helping himself to a refill. (Note: for reasons of lack of kitchen space, our soda machine is technically in the dining room, and this is the bane of my existence as I explain to people that no, the waitress gets your drinks, I'm sorry for the confusion, that's just the way it works here.) I stew, and I stew, and I scream inside my brain that if you want a goddamned refill but don't need it, just ask for the goddamned refill.

Within a few minutes, the manager produces a pizza, proudly declaring that she didn't burn it. I thank her profusely, swallow as I realize that the pork doesn't look very easy at all, but deliver the pizza. I smile, ask if the pork looks okay, joke about not burning the pizza, and serve the first slice. New Fella responds with a stony stare, and Former Coworker simply squirms.

And I swear to you, swear to you, within two minutes of the check-back "how is everything" chat, New Fella is up at the counter, demanding his check while Former Coworker avoids eye contact with me. I seize the check off the hook thingy and set it down in front of them wordlessly, with a pointed look at Former Coworker that she, eyes averted, doesn't catch.

I warn the other wait that I'll be back in two minutes and sneak out behind the restaurant for a Nonsmoker's Smoke Break, Allison's patented way of dealing with waitress rage; NSB's generally involve stomping around, waving my arms at the stars, and muttering a few choice expletives under my breath.

I can deal with a rude customer, but not one who works in food service and is affiliated with a friendish of mine. And I really, really can't deal with a friendish and waitress who lets her companion treat the wait that way. The last time this happened, it involved a coworker's mother, and these sorts of incidents may be the only thing left that really, truly gets to my little waitress self.