There are rare moments in my life when I think, “I really miss waitressing.” They happen from time to time, usually because waitressing means interacting with everyone on a daily basis. I don’t miss the dirty aprons, or the constant scent of grease on my skin, or the fourteen hour shifts on both Saturday and Sunday. I don’t miss my feet cramping up midway through my shift, or hearing a group of guests walk in and joke, “Party for fifty please! Hardy, har-har-har.” I don’t miss the stare downs with cooks because the order I put in was “too complicated and just plain stupid,” or carrying a food tray bigger than my own body with ten different plates of food.
Today, when Sam and I went out to breakfast, I had a breakthrough moment that made me realize how much I do not miss waitressing. We sat at a cozy warm table near a fireplace, and just a couple of tables down were two ladies, roughly in their forties or fifties, one brunette and one blonde. They are just chatting away about the latest gossip in their friend zone when the waitress walks over to get their drink order. The waitress then walks over to us, and we order two coffees and two waters. Not only does she have these two tables, but I observed she had about two or three other tables as well. Approximately five minutes goes by and the blonde begins perking her head up in search for the waitress.
“I’m listening. Keep going, I’m just wondering where the heck our drinks are,” the blonde says as she obnoxiously shakes her head around the restaurant. At this moment, I think, Oh God. That poor waitress still has an entire meal to wait on before these assholes can leave. Now both ladies are searching around, agitated and shouting to another waiter to say, “Um, yeah, hi? We ordered our drinks kind of a while ago….”
Need I repeat…it’s been five minutes. Since I was a waitress at one point, I know that a number of things could be happening. Not only is she taking care of their drinks, but she is taking care of ours as well as another tables. That’s a lot of effing drinks. Secondly, the coffee could have run out, which happens quite often on a Saturday morning. She could very well be waiting on the coffee to brew. News flash ladies: there’s no Keurig back there. You have to wait the old fashioned way.
About thirty seconds later, this tiny little waitress comes stumbling back to her section carrying a tray of what looks to be about ten waters and five coffees. She lightly puts the drinks down on their table and I don’t even hear a “thank you” from the two women who needed these drinks oh-so-badly-that-they-might-die. I’ve now got my eye on them.
The ladies order their food and it sounds a little something like this:
“Yeah, get me the western omelette, but without the bell peppers, and um, the tomatoes on the side. And can you hold the onions too? And maybe add some spinach, and some kale if you have it. I’m sorry, I’m just all over the place. Oh, and no toast. No, no, no to the toast.” But of course she’s demanding this order at the speed of light, making it impossible for the waitress to scribble it all down. I hope you choke on your omelette. The brunette also answered her phone in the middle of ordering.
After the waitress takes their order, she comes around with a pot of coffee to freshen it up for them. They didn’t want it. About two minutes goes by before the blonde is in search for the waitress again. She keeps looking back at me, giving me the stink eye for whatever reason, probably because Sam and I have nothing to complain about, and is now yelling, “Hello? Yeah, can you come here?”
“Like, what is she doing?” the blonde says.
“She’s hanging out over in the corner over there,” the brunette says. I can’t help but think, she was just over here! What on earth could you possibly need? The male waiter is now being summoned once again.
“Um, yeah, can we get someone over here to freshen up our coffee?” the blonde says.
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.
I start getting that zing feeling in my chest that I’m pretty sure murderers must feel before they are about to kill. The waitress scurries back over and freshens up their coffee. As soon as she walks away, they start complaining about her and the service. It’s slowly killing my brain cells.
Their food finally arrives.
“Are these the scrambled eggs?” the blonde asks.
“….Yes,” the waitress responds.
“Are both of these dishes spicy?” the brunette asks.
FIRST OFF: shouldn’t you know that what you are ordering is spicy? And define spicy for me, because I really hated it when people asked me this question. My idea of spicy could very well be entirely different than your idea of spicy. Are you sensitive to spicy? Or do you order the triple hot buffalo wings in a sports bar as a dare? I. Don’t. Know.You.
“Um, yeah, they are both relatively spicy,” says the waitress. “Is there anything else I can get you guys?”
“No, thank you.”
Waitress walks away, and not even thirty seconds later…
“These eggs are burnt. Where did our waitress go?” the brunette complains. They flag down the male waiter for the third time. “Yeah, can you get our waitress? These eggs are just so burnt.”
Waitress comes back, apologizes, and says the cook will start her a new omelette. She walks away again and I hear, “I said no bell peppers. I mean, I like them, I just didn’t feel like eating them today.”
I’m already informing Sam that we are leaving this waitress a big tip, and perhaps a vodka nip as I’m sure she needs it right now. The waitress brings back the second omelette while the brunette feels the need to remind her how hungry she is. As they are nearly done with their meal, chatting up a storm about their christmas shopping and this horrible waitress, the waitress comes back to check on them.
“Yeah, I’ll actually have that toast now,” the brunette says.
How about I shove that toast up your…..what? I’m not thinking evil thoughts.
We decided to leave the waitress a 100% tip and little love note that read:
This tip is for your friendly service and for serving those ladies. I would have
punched them in the face. Cheers! 🙂