Adventures In Waitressing
“What is this salad dressing? Is it Caesar??” asked the young woman, flagging me down.
I looked at her salad, not able to remember what she had ordered based on her face. “Oh! Yes, the tuna salad is a honey-mustard Caesar dressing.”
She glared up at me, as if blaming me for the whole dressing mishap. “Maybe you could get me the salad with just some balsamic vinegar then.” She said tightly, shoving the salad bowl back into my hands.
It wasn’t a problem. I told my managers, I punched in another salad, it took some time because it was a Sunday afternoon, but whatever- if you send it back, you have to be prepared to wait, right? ….wrong. I brought the new, improved salad to the table (in a record time, all things considered) and the young woman looked at the salad and then looked at me and said, “Could you cancel it? I don’t want it anymore.”
I looked at the food in my hands and then back at the customer. “It’s a little late to cancel the order.” I said, trying to appear apologetic.
“But she’s already finished eating!” the customer complained, gesturing to her mother (who had vacuumed up the stirfry she had ordered.)
“Well….” I replied, motioning with the salad to convey that perhaps her mother shouldn’t have scarfed her dinner so quickly, and also if one wanted to eat with one’s mother they wouldn’t send back their dinner during the rush at the restaurant.
Of course I got it cancelled. Their bill was negligible. The fact they paid to the penny lets me know just how big of assholes they were. OBVIOUSLY it was my fault the dressing was wrong. OBVIOUSLY it was my fault the salad wasn’t ready before her gluttonous mother was finished. And OBVIOUSLY everything was my fault, and I should be made to pay for the wonderful privilege of serving these people. (Just a reminder- I pay a “tip-out” on my sales not my tips, therefore if you don’t like the food or the hostess, and you don’t tip because of that, your server still pays. And depending on your bill, they pay a lot. They pay to serve your stupid ass. So the next time you hide a dollar fifty under the coffee cup and tell your server they did a great job, just think if that dollar fifty is worth your server’s time.) (Chances are, it’s not.)
I heave a great sigh, check my apron (already filthy from hoisin sauce and sour cream) and head to a station to get a drink. The night’s almost over, I just have to do the side duties and get it all over with.
