Forty-Three Reasons To Hate Your Boss

, , , , , | Working | June 27, 2020

I’m a waitress and we recently had a manager transferred to our restaurant. She’s nice but has a tendency to mess up orders in the kitchen, and the servers get wrong orders sent to wrong tables.

For the first couple of days, we’re a little understanding. But after a week, it keeps happening repeatedly, and we’re constantly double-checking tickets. It takes longer and customers get impatient with us, and it’s affecting our tips. 

One busy Friday night, after a few mess-ups, the manager gives us permission to double-check with her. But after two rounds of the servers asking, “Are you sure?” or, “Table number?” she gets frustrated and snaps at us.

My coworker finds a clever way to get around it by saying, “You just said table number forty-three, right?” and if it’s wrong, then she just plays it off, and if she’s right, then it makes everyone look good. So, the rest of us start following suit. 

However, even when I’m double-checking, I’m still getting wrong orders or missing something from the orders. Up until this point, I’ve been fortunate to have patient and understanding customers, but my last table yelled at me for taking too long and forgetting a few items. So, I go back to the kitchen to clarify.

Me: “Manager, table forty-three is missing some items from their order.” *Sets the receipt on the counter* “Could you please get that out to me really fast?”

Manager: “Fine, fine. In the meantime, will you take this to table twenty-one?”

Me: “I’m not opposed, but that’s not in my area and—”

Manager: “Take it to table twenty-one!”

I stand there a little shocked and start to take the plate when the waitress who has that section comes and gets it. I wait a moment longer and the manager slams down a platter of sides that I assume were for my original table, despite them not being the sides. 

Manager: “Table forty-three!”

Me: “Are you sure?”

There’s a moment of silence as the manager stares at me, appalled, and then glares, and I realize that I have let my frustration get to me. 

Manager: “You don’t need to take that attitude with me! I told you the table number!”

Me: “I’m sorry, I just wanted to be sure—”

Manager: “If you can’t tone down that attitude, you might as well go home. I have no use for sassy, disrespectful waitresses right now.”

My heart is pounding really hard and my cheeks are burning with embarrassment and anger. Half of the guests are looking at us, having heard the manager yell at me, and the other servers are staring at the two of us, waiting to see what will happen next. 

For some reason, however, I reach behind me, undo my apron, and toss it into the hamper behind the door.

Me: “Fine, then. See you tomorrow night.”


Now the entire restaurant is staring, and I find the courage to say:

Me: “You gave me the option, so… I’m going home.”

And, with that, I walked out the door, trying to hold my head high and not cry. 

If this doesn’t improve, I will probably put in my two weeks this next week.

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