Crazies
Bored at work today, I succumbed to temptation and started checking out the server blogs. I've been a fan of the Waiter's for awhile now, after discovering him after a very trying shift last summer. I think I read almost the entire blog at one sitting, cheering and laughing hilariously (I'm sure the vodka didn't hurt). From there I've clicked around to Server Stories, The Insane Waiter and Bitter Waitress (and she's not kidding!). I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but I am a bit, at seeing how it's the same job, whether you're in NYC, the Midwest, Oregon or New Mexico. The verbal tips, the uncontrolled kids, the awkward dates, the mind games, the nasty passive-aggressive menopausal women who hate you because you're still young and cute and won't let them sit there until midnight when all they've eaten is a cup of soup and a half a salad between them. But we have our own cast of characters here in Santa Fe that I haven't seen on any of the other blogs. We call them the crazies, but there are sub-groups: crazy old hippies, crazy yuppies, crazy tourists and crazy old regulars. They're not just obnoxious and clueless, but there's something about them that makes you keep just a bit of distance from the table and always have the wine key close at hand. Sometimes very close. Open, even.
After turning my brain to mush at my new non-restaurant job, I needed a break. Inspired by my blog reading I went by the old restaurant to say hi and see who had gotten fired since I'd left last month. It was a slow lunch so I was talking to the hostess when another waitress came up to say hi. As we were chatting a couple left, a man in his fifties and a lady who appeared to be his mother.
"Everything was great," she says. "Too much food but great."
We smile and say something mindless and they leave.
"Wasn't she all dolled up?" says the hostess.
And she was too. In her 70s or 80s, heavy makeup, brightly dyed hair (or wig), with a sour, petulant look on her face, carrying a large, black purse with that fluffy trim that looks like a small fuzzy animal is trying to make its escape.
"Did you see her eyelashes?" the waitress asks, "Well, she took them off and put them on her plate! I thought they were a spider or something until I realized what they were. They were all sparkly."
Eyelashes? I can see wiping off lipstick when eating or even taking out a retainer if necessary but eyelashes? Maybe she was having a hard time seeing her food.
We had a lady one night who asked for grenadine in her water, to "give it a kick." Water, mind you, not sparkling water, not club soda, flat tap water. When the waitress went back to the table the lady was passing it to her two dining companions, all obviously excited about this new culinary sensation.
Then there's the lady who takes her toy poodle with her into restaurants, dressed up in doll clothes and jewels (I hope they're not real, but you never know). If anyone complains she has a doctor's note, saying she needs the dog for "health reasons."
There's more, oh so much more, but it's getting late and I just had to re-type the half of the post that the computer just ate.
Bored at work today, I succumbed to temptation and started checking out the server blogs. I've been a fan of the Waiter's for awhile now, after discovering him after a very trying shift last summer. I think I read almost the entire blog at one sitting, cheering and laughing hilariously (I'm sure the vodka didn't hurt). From there I've clicked around to Server Stories, The Insane Waiter and Bitter Waitress (and she's not kidding!). I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but I am a bit, at seeing how it's the same job, whether you're in NYC, the Midwest, Oregon or New Mexico. The verbal tips, the uncontrolled kids, the awkward dates, the mind games, the nasty passive-aggressive menopausal women who hate you because you're still young and cute and won't let them sit there until midnight when all they've eaten is a cup of soup and a half a salad between them. But we have our own cast of characters here in Santa Fe that I haven't seen on any of the other blogs. We call them the crazies, but there are sub-groups: crazy old hippies, crazy yuppies, crazy tourists and crazy old regulars. They're not just obnoxious and clueless, but there's something about them that makes you keep just a bit of distance from the table and always have the wine key close at hand. Sometimes very close. Open, even.
After turning my brain to mush at my new non-restaurant job, I needed a break. Inspired by my blog reading I went by the old restaurant to say hi and see who had gotten fired since I'd left last month. It was a slow lunch so I was talking to the hostess when another waitress came up to say hi. As we were chatting a couple left, a man in his fifties and a lady who appeared to be his mother.
"Everything was great," she says. "Too much food but great."
We smile and say something mindless and they leave.
"Wasn't she all dolled up?" says the hostess.
And she was too. In her 70s or 80s, heavy makeup, brightly dyed hair (or wig), with a sour, petulant look on her face, carrying a large, black purse with that fluffy trim that looks like a small fuzzy animal is trying to make its escape.
"Did you see her eyelashes?" the waitress asks, "Well, she took them off and put them on her plate! I thought they were a spider or something until I realized what they were. They were all sparkly."
Eyelashes? I can see wiping off lipstick when eating or even taking out a retainer if necessary but eyelashes? Maybe she was having a hard time seeing her food.
We had a lady one night who asked for grenadine in her water, to "give it a kick." Water, mind you, not sparkling water, not club soda, flat tap water. When the waitress went back to the table the lady was passing it to her two dining companions, all obviously excited about this new culinary sensation.
Then there's the lady who takes her toy poodle with her into restaurants, dressed up in doll clothes and jewels (I hope they're not real, but you never know). If anyone complains she has a doctor's note, saying she needs the dog for "health reasons."
There's more, oh so much more, but it's getting late and I just had to re-type the half of the post that the computer just ate.
1 Comments:
eewwww,eyelashes? I thought I had seen weight of gaucherie when a man in my party (yes, I was actually sitting with him, waiting on him) picked a bottle of eyedrops from his breast pocket, tilted back in his chair and started flooding his eyeballs at dinnertime. But eyelashes are definitely much grosser.....
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