An older, heavily-drawling couple sit down in the pretty empty dining room – only slightly worrisome (w/r/t/ the drawling) as i’ve had the countriest-of-country behave excellently @ other restos where I’ve worked; I’ve also had bammas run me ragged for, literally, a 1% tip. Anyway, I’m there well-inside of 45s, hoping against hope that they’ll order full service – wine, apps, salads, entrees, desserts – ’cause I want that check total topospheric.
The gentleman orders a draught Miller Lite, and the lady a glass of pinot noir.
I send the orders, grab them from the service bar, and bring them to the table.
As I begin my whole speech about menu additions, soups & bruschettas, the guy interrupts:
“Hey sonny, it looks to me that you’ve brought my wife a half glass of wine”
0_o?! (This is after i watched him shake salt into his beer. Salt.)
“I’m sorry sir, but the industry standard for wine pours is 4 ounces. Glasses for red wine, by design, expand the surface area of the wine for purposes of breathing and aroma…”
Here he cuts me off again:
“Well, I appreciate you pissin’ down my leg and telling me it’s raining, but…”
(at this point, I’m a college student from NY, I don’t even know what the fuck that metaphor MEANS!)
He goes on and on about how it’s a half glass of wine, how us “city folk” are “bullshit artists” so by this time, in my frustration, I offer to bring a full glass of pinot for his wife.
Luckily, the store’s beverage mgr happened to be in, so I tell him the deal and ask him to deliver it to the table.
He does so, confused (but at this point we all are, me, the bartender, the mgr, everyone), and informs the guy that while we’re happy to serve his wife the glass of wine HE thinks she should have, the house would have to charge him for two.
Of course, he refuses, and we have to re-pour a regular glass of wine for his wife before I can get back to service.
So I’m back, jumping through the regular hoops. That evening we were featuring a beef tenderloin special (personally, I find filet mignon to be one of the most boring cuts of meat around, but customers love to stunt and order that shit) and I tell them both about the sauces and sides available, when this asshole stops me again:
“I won’t get an end cut, will I?”
No, I didn’t explain to him what a beef tenderloin looks like, where it’s located on the cow, how it’s packaged for foodservice; I just assured him that he wouldn’t.
He orders the feature well done.
You know what?, I’m gonna end this post now – I’m sure you can all tell where that table ended
…that’s right, in the dark world of 10% tips.
Table 15 
“Don’t piss in my fgace and try to convince me it’s raining” or any variation of that, is to allude that you’re trying to get over on somebody like a Jedi Mind trick. Telling them one thing when its really something else.