When you wait tables, you learn to anticipate that people are real morons, and just when you think you’ve seen it all, you have the pleasure of serving some one-in-a-million wacko who thinks that the rules of society do not apply to him. At this point, you realize that people are even more stupid than you thought. This kind of enlightenment happens over and over, of course, with each occurrence being more and more strange. For instance, here is a brief timeline of stupid things I’ve encountered waitressing:
Summer 2000 – A family of organics requested organic chicken tenders insisting that they were not able to digest chemicals. After arguing with me about it for ten minutes, they ordered every organic item on our menu…and four Diet Cokes.
Summer 2001 – A woman asked me, “What is the difference between the chicken salad and the tuna sald?” Dumbfounded, I responded, “Well, we are out of the chicken salad, and we have the tuna salad.”
Summer 2002 – A group of drunk women kept slipping money into my apron (perhaps they mistook me for a stripper?) and ended up tipping me over $65 on their $140 check.
Summer 2003 – A group of foreigners argued with me for several minutes, obviously disturbed and confused by the fact that I would not let them bring over a few pizzas from the restaurant next door and eat them at one of the tables at our restaurant. (No, they were not planning on ordering anything.)
My most recent enlightenment took place yesterday afternoon when I had the privilege of waiting on a true wacko.
As the lunch rush died down, I glanced over to my section to see that a single older man had been seated at one of my tables. I went over and performed my usual cheerful greeting, asking if I could get him a drink.
“Sure, honey,” he responded, reaching out to touch my arm, “I’ll have a double brandy separator.”
“A what?” I was pissed that he touched me, I stepped back a bit.
“A double brandy separator on the interim. You know, honey.”
I was thinking, Dude, my name is NOT honey. “Um, so…” I had no clue what the hell he was asking me for. “Do you want that on the rocks?”
“Honey, you know what I mean. A double brandy separator.” If you know what this is and think I am a moron, I’m sorry, but I was definitely baffled.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be right back with that.”
To make the story short, I brought him the drink, he drank some of it, he left the restaurant and disappeared for twenty minutes, he came back and ordered another drink (these were $15.50 apiece, mind you) and an appetizer, he disappeared again and I told my manager he was freaking me out and that I was afraid he was going to bounce without paying his check, he reappeared and ordered an entrée, and by this time the entire staff was watching to make sure he didn’t leave.
A little while later, I returned to his table to check on him and he stated, “This chicken is marvelous.” When I noticed he was done, I went to clear his dish and he said, “Um, this wasn’t very good and I can’t pay for my food because I have no money.”
“You what?” I asked.
“I can’t pay for my dinner. Plus, I didn’t like it.”
“You just told me it was marvelous.”
“Look. I left all this because it wasn’t good.”
“It’s a forkful of mashed potatoes and three green beans, dude. You ate it, you liked it, and you owe $60.20.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Well, you just stay right there in that chair. I’ll be back with my manager.”
I brought over my big scary manager, Guy. Mr. Wacko decided to be a smartass and Guy walked off to call Mandalay Bay security. Then that loser winked at me. He winked at me. “Your boss is a nice guy,” he said.
“Don’t wink at me, genius. I’m not impressed. I’m responsible for that 60 bucks and I’m pissed at you. So, you just sit there and we’ll see how nice of a guy he is.”
In the end, three rather large MB security guys came down to inform my crazy at table 151 that defrauding an innkeeper is a felony in Nevada.
“Use your judgment guys; do what you have to,” the retard said. The MB security guys escorted him out of the restaurant after that.
Moral of this story — do not order food and $16 drinks from me without intending to pay for them. Your ass will end up in prison.
Later on, my manager asked me if I felt bad for sending some poor hungry guy to jail. “Hell, no, honey,” I said, “That fucker didn’t leave me a tip!”