Typically I get along just fine with gay men. Dykey women freak me out since they assume I’m one of them. I guess the sensible shoes throw them off.
I worked for Shannon on Sunday night and it was absolute chaos. We were horribly understaffed and insanely busy. Darren and Boy Cook Zach were busing tables, seating people and running food. I was dropping food and drinks off at tables and running away. When we are that busy, there is no time for mistakes, so I am very careful about writing my tickets and asking the proper questions to save myself steps and time.
During the melee, I was seated a table of two couples: a man and a woman and two gay men. I asked for their drink order and everyone asked for tea, except the gay man by the window. He ordered coffee and when I asked if he took cream with it, he said no.
I brought their drinks and he asked, “Where’s my cream?’ Not as, “Oops, I forgot to order cream,” but as, “You retard, you didn’t bring me what I specifically said I didn’t want.” My standard answer to questions which start, “Where’s my…” is “If it was up your ass you’d know.” Maybe not in this case.
I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I asked if you wanted cream and I thought you said no.”
“I wouldn’t have said that.” (But you did.) “Now go get it for me.”
I ignored him and proceeded to take their order. There was no way in hell I was walking all the way back to the waitstation for a bowl of creamers.
When it was his turn to order he asked for the top sirloin with sauteed onions (it says “grilled onions” on the menu, but the cooks throw them in the deep fryer, so enjoy that). Then he said he wanted the corn, but he simply could NOT eat it if it didn’t have lots of butter. (Oh, I’ll bet you can.) “Do you think you can bring me lots of butter?” Um, gee, is the butter the stuff in the shiney foil? How about you just ask for extra butter and stop acting like a spoiled 12 year old girl.
Two of the other men ordered the salad bar and before I left their table I told them I would be right back with their salad bar plates. As I came out of the waitstation with two salad bar plates, I noticed Angel giving plates to the two gay men. The elapsed time from when I left their table to when I walked out of the waitstation was less than a minute. Right in front of them I explained to Angel that the servers have to take the plates to the tables since people try to scam free salad bar. This was because Spoiled 12 Year Old Girl didn’t order a salad bar.
Well, he wigged out on me. “I did order salad bar!” he shrieked.
“Uh…no you didn’t,” his partner and I said in unison.
“Well fine. Take the plate back then! I just won’t have salad bar.”
I explained he could have it, I just needed to be aware of it so I could charge correctly.
“I’m not having it!” he yelled. “You and I aren’t getting along!”
“No shit,” I said as I yanked the plate out of his hands.
As I was giving the other man his salad bar plate, Spoiled 12 Year Old Girl arrived back at the table and flung himself in the booth. “The waitress and I aren’t getting along so I’m not having salad bar.” The other man said, “Well, you DIDN’T order it and she DID say to wait here for the plates.” He sat there pouting until the food arrived.
Spoiled 12 Year Old Girl never did get his cream. He didn’t get a salad bar. He got a minimum amount of butter. He did not get a refill on his coffee. When his steak knife fell on the floor, he did not get a replacement. The other people at his table received good service, refills, prebusing, and offers of dessert.
Here’s a question: When a server treats everyone at your table and everyone at the tables around you with kindness, yet she treats you like shit, do you think YOU might be the problem?
My tip on that table? 20%