tbl 23

Friday night dinner service. Rock and fucking roll. I’m breezing through the dining room, doting on my full section. All food has gone out, so I’m just refilling drinks and working on one table that needed to be coursed. Section 1 gets cut, so I pick up two more tables. I walk back to the kitchen to bullshit with our exec chef who’s on expo when our hostess comes back and lets me know i just got a 6-top. Nice.

Actually, not.

I get over to the table and am greeted with a set of people who are some of the most socially awkward I’ve ever served in my life – I’ll describe them as the type who are probably upper-level Dungeons and Dragons players, and that they got so good at it on their time off from home school. I figure I can work through it though, and I was almost right.

Service is a bit halting, only because each time I got to the table the kids acted as if I was speaking Japanese. Once I had drinks and apps in, and entree’s on hold I felt relieved as from there on out I would get to interact with them largely without speaking.

Oh, I should mention, this particular Friday was during Atlanta Pride Festival. I’ve worked through a few Prides in my time, and trust me, it’s great money. My strategy is always to come across as ambiguous as possible so the guys might think they have a chance – they then tip extra and leave a phone number, I keep the cash and ditch the number. Also, incidentally, if you, dear reader, didn’t know – gays are awesome tippers.

Which brings us to the moment that table 23 went all wrong.

On my fifth table visit, most are done eating and one girl asks me to bring the check. I say of course, and ask whether anyone would like the remains of their meal boxed. Now this fat slob of a queen was at seat 6, and he had been checking me out all night. He responds to my query with this particular gem:

“Only if you come in a box.”

Now, in accordance with my Pride strategy I laugh and say something about not getting out of the resto for a few more hours. I print out their tab and place the check presenter in front of the girl that requested it.

Minutes later and they still haven’t sorted out the check, so I return and offer to split it if they’d like. Nope, “we’ll figure it out” is what I get.

A few more minutes later and a coworker lets me know that they asked to see the manager. Which is puzzling because, like I said, the only hiccups in dinner service were related to their extreme social ineptitude.

He comes back to me and tells me that 1) they were dissatisfied with my service – bullshit, but whatever, and 2) that they had mistaken the state sales tax for a gratuity, and found me presumptuous for adding it. Now even if I HAD added the grat, it would’ve been me exercising a recognized industry practice for parties of 5 or more, a fact that happens to be printed on our menu. Whatever, so at this point I know I’m gonna get a shitty tip and am content to lose what should’ve been $25 just so I don’t have to deal with them anymore. I tell my manager the whole thing about fat-shit hitting on me and he, the cook and I all agree his ego’s probably just a bit bruised, and now they wanna get buck about my service.

He kisses their ass, splits and pays their checks and we all laugh hysterically at them while within their earshot.

Do I come in a box? What kinda line is that anyway.

Fuck them, hope they caught something viral and hard-to-treat in Piedmont Park that weekend.