A Zero From A Couple Of Big Old Number Twos

I did a brief five-week stint as a server at a steakhouse. The procedure was for the hostess or host to inform us whenever we had anyone new seated in our section.

Late one night, long after our normal dinner rush and maybe an hour before closing, I was walking around between the front and back of house, cleaning this and that, when seemingly out of the blue a guest grabbed me by the arm.

He was at a table with another guest in my section. My host had not informed me that there was anyone seated in my section recently.

Guest: “Hey, can we get some drinks? We’ve been sitting here for five minutes already.”

I tried to conceal my surprise at suddenly having new guests.

Me: “Absolutely, sir! What can I get you?”

He and his friend ordered. I got their drinks and their food, and then I checked in with them shortly after serving their meals.

Me: “How is everything, gentlemen?”

Guest: “This chicken is incredibly dry!”

Me: “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Would you like me to have the kitchen remake it for you?”

Guest: “No, no. I’ll just eat it.”

Eventually, they finished their meals with no further incident, and I delivered their check. They paid by card, and I left them with the receipt to sign.

When I came back after they left to collect the receipt, the tip line read a great big fat zero. It was a zero that looked like it had been circled over itself many times, and it was in a different enough handwriting style from the rest of the guest’s writing on the receipt that it was very clearly meant as a giant middle finger to me — even though I had nothing to do with not being informed when they were initially sat in my section NOR did I personally cook the food the one guest thought was so unacceptable.