Dear Chuck,
Look, we each have our own style of waiting tables. You have your way which is to rush customers through their meal and to make them feel uncomfortable the whole time they are there and then we have my way, which is the right way. I smile at my customers (they don’t know it’s fake) and try to make them feel like they are welcome in my section. You don’t know the meaning of the words “small talk” and if you were a doctor, your bedside manner would be that of a cold, dead fish. I, on the other hand, can make customers think that the cold, dead fish they are dealing with is the special of the day and once it has a salsa verde on it and it’s been pan-seared, they will love it.
We work together and we must find a way to make this amicable for all involved. We don’t have to be best friends or anything like that, and honestly, how could we be? We have different lives. You, with your wife who pops out a kid every year and me with my husband who pops open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc every night. We are two different people who just happen to work in the same restaurant, Chuck. We pool our tips and we are stuck with one another. It’s like we are Siamese twins, destined to be together forever but longing for a chainsaw that can rip us the fuck apart, internal organs be damned.
Here’s what I need from you, Chuck: stay the fuck away from my tables. They are mine, and even though you will be getting a percentage of the tip they leave, I don’t need you sticking your wide fucking face all up in their business to see if they need something I am not providing. I have been waiting tables since before you were a glimmer in your dad’s sperm well, so I got this. When I see you asking my tables if they want dessert, it pisses me off because maybe they already told me they weren’t having it. Don’t drop a check at my table because when you do it, you throw it at them like it’s a rock and you want to put out an eyeball. I like to thank them for coming in as I gently slide it onto the middle of the table, so as not to assume that the man is paying. We’re different.
Don’t get into my business, Chuck. I don’t get involved in yours, do I? No, I don’t. If I did, I would attack you with a wax strip so you can see what it feels like to have two eyebrows instead of one, big, long, hairy one that rivals Bert’s from Sesame Street. I leave your unibrow alone and you leave my tables alone, alright? Don’t worry about the tips. We pool. You will get a portion of my consistent 20-25% tips and I will get a portion of your consistent 15-17% ones.
Thanks for reading, Chuck. Sorry if the eyebrow remark hurt your feelings. Maybe it was a bit painful for you to read, but it’s no less painful than when my olfactory system is pillaged by your rancid mix of Axe Body Spray, dirty uniform and butt sweat.
Your friend,
The Bitchy Waiter
