The hostess came over to me to let me know that they wanted a Bud Light and a Sam Adams. I went over to table 15 to clarify what they really wanted, as the Bud Light on draft comes in two sizes and we carry, or at least once carried two varieties of Sam Adams. They were old, confused by my question, and generally unappreciative of me taking the extra time to make sure they were getting exactly what they wanted. Fine.
Upon bringing them their drinks I proceeded to attempt to take their order. The man on the left ordered a rib eye medium rare with a "baked butata". I apologized and pointed out that we do not have baked potatoes. The steaks come with mashed butatas. If he would like he could substitute French fries or extra vegetables or a small salad. After much confusing dialogue he came to the conclusion that he wanted the steak, fries, and a salad. To further clarify I asked if he wanted the salad instead of the vegetables and somehow came to the conclusion he wanted steak, fries, vegetables, and a salad - with blue cheese dressing. I asked the man on the right and he said he wanted "the same". Knowing he did not really understand what "the same" was I read back exactly what Dirty Old Man #1 (from now on we'll call them DOM1 and DOM2) wanted and it turned out that DOM 2 did not really want the same. He wanted a rib eye cooked medium rare with mashed butatas, vegetables and some sour cream and chives. He did not want a salad. Before finally leaving the table the two men asked me if I was fromEngland Australia Chicago England Australia
Speaking of Midwestern accents: let me describe the pair of DOM in question. They both had the speech patterns of sort of a Midwestern Tony Soprano. (I later concluded that by asking me if I were British they were making fun of me for having good grammar). They were probably in their late sixties, but aging badly. They may have been in their seventies. Initially I was not sure if they were drunk or just rude and slightly senile. (By the way - as a person who has waited tables for years I can tell you that trying to order something that is not on the menu and assuming that all restaurants have baked butatas is a dirty old man norm. So is talking down to woman in general. Especially women who are waitresses, but more on that later.)
I dealt with the three other tables I had kept waiting and put the DOM's order in. While I was taking care of the other tables the server who was working room service ran DOM1's salad. He reported back to me that they were confused and neither remembered ordering a salad. He said they were "really wasted". I still thought they were just rude and senile.
Finally I bring their graciously modified order and asked them is they need anything else.
The busser tells me that they asked her for another round of beers. Now I am starting to think they are a bunch of drunks, as the beers they have are half full. If they don't remember ordering a salad they are not going to remember ordering beer - I hope. I would rather ignore the request than start a confrontation by cutting them off. I knew these guys were trouble and I was not about to incriminate my self my over serving them before they started trouble. And what sort of asshole orders beer from a busser when they still have half a beer? It's not like I was ignoring them.
I go over to the table to check on them, knowing I was really going into a dirty old man battlefield. Ah the stench of Aqua Velva, the iron like strength of the baked butata. What could I do but wear a shit-eating waitress grin as they complained about the food that came exactly AS THEY ORDERED IT. "Can you send someone over here who speaks good English?" At first I thought they were making a reference to the busser, who does speak English as a second language. Then I realized they were talking about me. Because I speak Australian. I assured them that I could help them. "What is wrong with this," ejaculated DOM2, looking down at a the fleshy pink rib eye he had cut into. There was nothing wrong with it. When he had ordered "the same" as DOM1 he was ordering his steak cooked medium rare. I had made sure he really wanted it medium rare. "Why don't you tell me what is wrong with it and we can fix it." What else could I say? Nothing was wrong with it. "What does this look like to you?" asked DOM2. I decide to play his game, realizing that he did not want his steak medium rare, as he had ordered it. Looking at the steak it looked between medium and medium rare. I initially thought he was going to say it was overcooked, but now I was wondering if he thought it was undercooked. This guy was trash. Waiting tables makes you very classist about food. As a rule, upper-class people tend to order meat on the rare side. They choose a vinaigrette dressing, and if they must have a cream based dressing it is blue cheese - or better yet Roquefort. Well done meat and ranch is the other side of the coin.
In response to his question I say "it looks on the rare side of medium to me," thinking he did not remember what temp he had actually ordered it be. "How would you like it cooked?" I asked, getting to the point, as I had other tables that deserve better service than these guys. After concluding that he wanted it medium I take it to the kitchen to have it refired. Before doing this I show it to the manager on duty to make sure I am not crazy. After all, I probably haven't eaten red meat since I've was seventeen, so I did have it checked to make sure my judgment wasn't totally off. Because I am a good server.
Meanwhile, DOM1 eats his food and the area around the table looks like there should be a few highchairs at the table. These dirty old men are messy eaters. I guess they have forgotten about the beer. Good. While we wait for the refire there is a discussion about whether or not they are really drunk or senile. All parties involved who have interacted with the table have differing opinions. The manager kindly offers to bring the refire and make sure everything is okay. Supposedly it is. A few minutes later I check up to make sure everything is okay. At this point DOM1 has left and DOM2 asked for that beer he ordered. "I'm, sorry, but it is the policy of the restaurant that can not serve a guest who is already intoxicated." It felt good. Infact, it felt better than good. He wasted my time, wasted the kitchen's time, made fun of my exotic accent that I don't have, made a mess and was just an ass in general. It was his turn to be embarrassed.
Incase my boss should ever read this I would also like to state that it actually is the policy of the state of Washington (and the restaurant I work at that shall remain nameless) that intoxicated guests not be served. If the guest injures himself in a drunken toe stub, causes a car accident, or grabs the hostesses' boob, the restaurant can legally be held liable, face huge fines, and potentially be shut down. The pure glee I felt in cutting the fucker off was in the best interest of the restaurant and in the spirit of being a good American citizen. Hooray for me - a responsible employee proudly doing her civic duty to protect my employer, all drivers and pedestrians, and the hot hostess from bodily harm!
I dropped the checked and started cleaning up the huge mess the slob had made. I was nervous about him starting a confrontation and I knocked over a glass that still had some water in it. "It looks like you are the one who is intoxicated," slurred DOM2. "I can assure you I am not", I casually replied. He paid with a credit card and did not tip. Before he left he asked if the restaurant was "owned by Hindus or Pakistanis". I assured him it was owned by a Caucasian gentleman such as himself.
Between the two beers and the two steaks they made my sales go up to the point where I had to tip out the hostess and extra dollar and the bartender an extra dollar. For all my unrewarded asskissing and grief I LOST TWO DOLLARS ON THE TABLE.
To add insult of injury, DOM2 emailed the hotel's Director of Food and Beverage to complain about me. I did not see this coming, as I can not believe this guy knows how to use email. To bad he had not sent snail mail, as the return address would have indicated that he lived in either the baboon house or a nursing home for alcoholics. She sent him a gift card for a free meal. What the fuck.
So, to reiterate the story, they were rude to the hostess, made fun of me, insulted me and wasted my time, wasted the kitchen's time, bothered the busser, made a mess, caused the other tables in the restaurant to have bad service, made a racist comment, cost me two dollars, caused me a whole lot of anxiety and stress and now they are getting a free meal. Living in a society that continually rewards people for bad behavior is disgusting. Shouldn't our goal to be to build of a clientele that is polite and likes the kind of food we have as we prepare it. Shouldn't our goal be to have a clientele that can cut themselves off instead of being obnoxious to the point were their server has to cut them off? (Believe me - polite charming drunks don't get cut off.) Shouldn’t we want patrons who DON’T cause the rest of the customers to get sucky service by being obnoxious and ridiculously high maintenance? I guess not. They were a bunch of stinking racist dirty old men who developed their ideas of how women should be treated during the Eisenhower administration. To them a waitress is probably right next to a hooker. May they suffocate on their own aqua velva fumes.
Upon bringing them their drinks I proceeded to attempt to take their order. The man on the left ordered a rib eye medium rare with a "baked butata". I apologized and pointed out that we do not have baked potatoes. The steaks come with mashed butatas. If he would like he could substitute French fries or extra vegetables or a small salad. After much confusing dialogue he came to the conclusion that he wanted the steak, fries, and a salad. To further clarify I asked if he wanted the salad instead of the vegetables and somehow came to the conclusion he wanted steak, fries, vegetables, and a salad - with blue cheese dressing. I asked the man on the right and he said he wanted "the same". Knowing he did not really understand what "the same" was I read back exactly what Dirty Old Man #1 (from now on we'll call them DOM1 and DOM2) wanted and it turned out that DOM 2 did not really want the same. He wanted a rib eye cooked medium rare with mashed butatas, vegetables and some sour cream and chives. He did not want a salad. Before finally leaving the table the two men asked me if I was from
Speaking of Midwestern accents: let me describe the pair of DOM in question. They both had the speech patterns of sort of a Midwestern Tony Soprano. (I later concluded that by asking me if I were British they were making fun of me for having good grammar). They were probably in their late sixties, but aging badly. They may have been in their seventies. Initially I was not sure if they were drunk or just rude and slightly senile. (By the way - as a person who has waited tables for years I can tell you that trying to order something that is not on the menu and assuming that all restaurants have baked butatas is a dirty old man norm. So is talking down to woman in general. Especially women who are waitresses, but more on that later.)
I dealt with the three other tables I had kept waiting and put the DOM's order in. While I was taking care of the other tables the server who was working room service ran DOM1's salad. He reported back to me that they were confused and neither remembered ordering a salad. He said they were "really wasted". I still thought they were just rude and senile.
Finally I bring their graciously modified order and asked them is they need anything else.
The busser tells me that they asked her for another round of beers. Now I am starting to think they are a bunch of drunks, as the beers they have are half full. If they don't remember ordering a salad they are not going to remember ordering beer - I hope. I would rather ignore the request than start a confrontation by cutting them off. I knew these guys were trouble and I was not about to incriminate my self my over serving them before they started trouble. And what sort of asshole orders beer from a busser when they still have half a beer? It's not like I was ignoring them.
I go over to the table to check on them, knowing I was really going into a dirty old man battlefield. Ah the stench of Aqua Velva, the iron like strength of the baked butata. What could I do but wear a shit-eating waitress grin as they complained about the food that came exactly AS THEY ORDERED IT. "Can you send someone over here who speaks good English?" At first I thought they were making a reference to the busser, who does speak English as a second language. Then I realized they were talking about me. Because I speak Australian. I assured them that I could help them. "What is wrong with this," ejaculated DOM2, looking down at a the fleshy pink rib eye he had cut into. There was nothing wrong with it. When he had ordered "the same" as DOM1 he was ordering his steak cooked medium rare. I had made sure he really wanted it medium rare. "Why don't you tell me what is wrong with it and we can fix it." What else could I say? Nothing was wrong with it. "What does this look like to you?" asked DOM2. I decide to play his game, realizing that he did not want his steak medium rare, as he had ordered it. Looking at the steak it looked between medium and medium rare. I initially thought he was going to say it was overcooked, but now I was wondering if he thought it was undercooked. This guy was trash. Waiting tables makes you very classist about food. As a rule, upper-class people tend to order meat on the rare side. They choose a vinaigrette dressing, and if they must have a cream based dressing it is blue cheese - or better yet Roquefort. Well done meat and ranch is the other side of the coin.
In response to his question I say "it looks on the rare side of medium to me," thinking he did not remember what temp he had actually ordered it be. "How would you like it cooked?" I asked, getting to the point, as I had other tables that deserve better service than these guys. After concluding that he wanted it medium I take it to the kitchen to have it refired. Before doing this I show it to the manager on duty to make sure I am not crazy. After all, I probably haven't eaten red meat since I've was seventeen, so I did have it checked to make sure my judgment wasn't totally off. Because I am a good server.
Meanwhile, DOM1 eats his food and the area around the table looks like there should be a few highchairs at the table. These dirty old men are messy eaters. I guess they have forgotten about the beer. Good. While we wait for the refire there is a discussion about whether or not they are really drunk or senile. All parties involved who have interacted with the table have differing opinions. The manager kindly offers to bring the refire and make sure everything is okay. Supposedly it is. A few minutes later I check up to make sure everything is okay. At this point DOM1 has left and DOM2 asked for that beer he ordered. "I'm, sorry, but it is the policy of the restaurant that can not serve a guest who is already intoxicated." It felt good. Infact, it felt better than good. He wasted my time, wasted the kitchen's time, made fun of my exotic accent that I don't have, made a mess and was just an ass in general. It was his turn to be embarrassed.
Incase my boss should ever read this I would also like to state that it actually is the policy of the state of Washington (and the restaurant I work at that shall remain nameless) that intoxicated guests not be served. If the guest injures himself in a drunken toe stub, causes a car accident, or grabs the hostesses' boob, the restaurant can legally be held liable, face huge fines, and potentially be shut down. The pure glee I felt in cutting the fucker off was in the best interest of the restaurant and in the spirit of being a good American citizen. Hooray for me - a responsible employee proudly doing her civic duty to protect my employer, all drivers and pedestrians, and the hot hostess from bodily harm!
I dropped the checked and started cleaning up the huge mess the slob had made. I was nervous about him starting a confrontation and I knocked over a glass that still had some water in it. "It looks like you are the one who is intoxicated," slurred DOM2. "I can assure you I am not", I casually replied. He paid with a credit card and did not tip. Before he left he asked if the restaurant was "owned by Hindus or Pakistanis". I assured him it was owned by a Caucasian gentleman such as himself.
Between the two beers and the two steaks they made my sales go up to the point where I had to tip out the hostess and extra dollar and the bartender an extra dollar. For all my unrewarded asskissing and grief I LOST TWO DOLLARS ON THE TABLE.
To add insult of injury, DOM2 emailed the hotel's Director of Food and Beverage to complain about me. I did not see this coming, as I can not believe this guy knows how to use email. To bad he had not sent snail mail, as the return address would have indicated that he lived in either the baboon house or a nursing home for alcoholics. She sent him a gift card for a free meal. What the fuck.
So, to reiterate the story, they were rude to the hostess, made fun of me, insulted me and wasted my time, wasted the kitchen's time, bothered the busser, made a mess, caused the other tables in the restaurant to have bad service, made a racist comment, cost me two dollars, caused me a whole lot of anxiety and stress and now they are getting a free meal. Living in a society that continually rewards people for bad behavior is disgusting. Shouldn't our goal to be to build of a clientele that is polite and likes the kind of food we have as we prepare it. Shouldn't our goal be to have a clientele that can cut themselves off instead of being obnoxious to the point were their server has to cut them off? (Believe me - polite charming drunks don't get cut off.) Shouldn’t we want patrons who DON’T cause the rest of the customers to get sucky service by being obnoxious and ridiculously high maintenance? I guess not. They were a bunch of stinking racist dirty old men who developed their ideas of how women should be treated during the Eisenhower administration. To them a waitress is probably right next to a hooker. May they suffocate on their own aqua velva fumes.
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