I work in a small chain family restaurant that serves a lot of home-style cooked food. Lately, there’s only a hostess on weekend morning shifts — my manager desperately needs to hire multiple front-end staff but just “hasn’t gotten around to it” — so it gets pretty hectic having to serve and hostess when it gets busy at night. I usually end up serving my section and hostessing for both me and the other waitress.

Tonight, Friday, the busiest night of the week, my boss had just me and the youngest server —she’s seventeen and she’s actually really amazing at her job — manning the restaurant. We work great together, but both of us being and looking very young makes rude and entitled people not want to listen to us. As soon as I started my shift at 3:00 pm, I covered the whole floor — twelve tables at full capacity — for an hour until the other server arrived, and then we split the floor. The first hour was quite busy, but it just got busier and busier after she arrived until we had to start up a waitlist.

I noticed a new customer at the front as I was bringing out a table’s food. As soon as I walked up to him and was in the middle of saying hello, he looked straight ahead at the one dirty table in the joint.

Customer: “I’ll take that booth; go clean it.”

Me: “I’m sorry but we are full and actually have a waiting list going. There’s one person ahead of you and it should be around ten or fifteen minutes for a table.”

Customer: “Just give me that table. I’m in a hurry; I have places to be.”

Me: “That table is actually for that lady behind you and it’s our only available one, but I can add you to the list and the next available table will be yours.”

Customer: *Points to closed tables* “What about those empty tables? Don’t want to sit me there or what?”

Me: “Those are actually closed for social distancing.”

Customer: “Aren’t there tables around the corner in the back there?”

Me: “They’re all full, as well; everything is occupied. Would you like to be added to the list or not?”

I’m getting impatient as I have about a dozen other tasks that would be much more useful than this conversation.

Customer: “Show me the list.”

Me: “There’s one person ahead of you.”

Customer: “Show me the list.”

Me: “There is only one person ahead of you.”

Customer: *Getting increasingly angrier* “Show me the list!”

Me: “That lady is the only person ahead of you; the next table will be yours.”

Customer: “GIVE ME THE LIST! I WANT TO SEE HOW LONG THE WAIT IS MYSELF!”

The guy literally tries to SNATCH the paper right out of my hands. I’m kind of shocked.

Me: “I am not going to show you the list. It has people’s private numbers on it.”

Customer: “What’s your name?”

I tell him.

Customer: “Well, I’m [Customer] and you’re in trouble. I don’t mean to be short, but people’s time is important, and you are wasting it.” *Turns to walk out*

Me: “I know it is, and so are you.”

I doubt he heard the last part but really hope he did!

It is during graduation week, the busiest time of the year for restaurants in my city. Generally speaking, this specific crowd, which consists mostly of parents and families from out of town, can be quite demanding, impatient, and stingy.

My boss always gives me large parties because I can handle them. My trick is to handle large tables as if they are a kindergarten class. I make a seating chart on my server pad and no one orders “out of turn.” I also communicate everything, e.g. “Now I’m setting your silverware for your main course,” or, “I’ve just checked on your order and the chef said it will take about another five minutes. Anything I can bring you in the meantime?” etc.

I have a super obnoxious family of fourteen. They’re indecisive and ask a lot of questions and take their sweet time ordering. They also interrupt and talk over each other. But on top of that, they’re very impatient and demanding. One of the sons is also trying to hit on me while I’m taking his drink order:

Customer: “Uh, so, what’s, like, the manliest drink on the menu?”

I personally don’t like to categorize drinks this way. Alcohol is alcohol and everyone has their own personal taste. I always try to ask after customer’s preferences.

Me: “Well, what do you normally like to drink? Gin, vodka, bourbon, tequila?”

Customer: *With a dumb smirk* “What do you like to drink? I bet you like something sweet.”

Me: *Internally rolling my eyes* “Actually, I’m more of a bourbon or whiskey girl. If you’re looking for something a bit strong, I would recommend [particular drink]. It’s one of my personal favorites and it’s actually quite popular with a lot of customers.”

Customer: “Oh… umm… how about this strawberry mojito?”

Later, as I’m bringing their food, many of the customers at the table interrupt me to ask for little extra things before I have everyone’s meal on the table. For example, while I have my arms full of hot plates, the grandma asks me for “ready cheese.” I’m not completely sure what she means, but I assume she means Parmesan.

Me: “Of course. I’ll bring that for you as soon as I’m done getting this hot food out.”

Note to customers: please wait until everyone at your table has been served before you ask for extras like ketchup, napkins, extra sides, etc. That way we can ensure that everyone gets their food while it’s hot. Otherwise, you end up complaining later that not everyone got their food or that your food is cold.

Even though the table was difficult, I was able to organize everything pretty well and still attend to my other tables. The customers later called back that evening and they apparently told my manager that it was “the best service they ever had, but they were terrified of me.” Honestly, that’s the best compliment I’ve ever received as a server!

My manager is taking reservations for graduation weekend, one of the busiest times for restaurants in my town. She gets this call from a woman who wants to make a change to her reservation.

Caller: “I already made a reservation for grad week for five people, but I was wondering if we could reserve a bigger table, like for six people.”

Manager: “Are you adding another guest to your reservation?”

Caller: “No, it’s still five people; we just need a larger table.”

Manager: “I’m sorry, but we are completely booked for that weekend and we need the larger tables for the larger parties.”

Caller: *Sighs* “It’s just… my husband… he’s just so fat.”

Manager: *A bit taken aback* “Oh, well, umm… perhaps we could find a smaller table to add to yours, but I can’t promise anything, since the seating plan will already be a bit tight. I’ll see what we can do.”

Caller: “Okay, I guess that’ll work. He’s… just so fat.”

Manager: “Okay, well, is there anything else I can help you with?”

Caller: “No, that’s all. Thank you.” *Mumbling to herself* “…just so fat.”

When I’m nineteen, I am hired on to open a new restaurant in our area. We go through the process of training in hotels while it’s being built, and I am going to start out as a hostess to get the feel of the inner workings at this particular place.

On our second night of cold opening, where you basically have to be invited — food is free, half charge on the bar, and tipping is required — it happens.

I have seated a table of a well-to-do man and a couple of his equally well-off buddies in their late forties or early fifties. It’s a lovely interaction; I expect nothing else through their visit. I get them squared away and walk back up to the host stand to snag my laminated copy of the table chart.

I walk back by this table after running through and checking on open and soon-to-be-open tables. This man slaps my a** as I walk by.

In a sheer, shocked reaction, I turn around and frisbee the chart into this clown’s neck. You know how sharp those new laminated edges are. I draw blood. The whole place just goes quiet.

Then, from every corner, nook, and cranny of that building, everyone — I mean everyone — starts uproariously laughing, even the proprietor. I’m still s***ting bricks, thinking I just slashed this guy’s jugular and now I’m going to jail.

I try to pull myself together as quickly as possible and leap to his table, just spewing apologies. (I’m nineteen, it’s 2000, and I don’t know better.) He and his bros are laughing so hard, the only noise is their wheezing. They have tears rolling down their faces.

The proprietor is now running to the table, still giggling like a toddler. Before he can even get out a response, the man starts talking, reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He apologizes profusely to me, saying he “didn’t know what came over him” and he wasn’t hurt by anything but “his actions”.

The guy puts five $20 bills in my hand and apologizes so many more times throughout the whole evening.

After he and his crew waddle on out, I am doing my thing with the chart again — more aware now — and random tables keep handing me money. “We haven’t laughed that hard in ages!” “You made our night!” And so on.

Forget the fact that he just basically assaulted me in front of all you. Thanks for the cash.

I profited off a booty slap, was not written up or fired, and took down a grown-a** man down with a laminated chart. I will never forget that night.

There is an upscale restaurant here where you get your food by going to various cooking stations. There are stations for steaks, roast chicken, vegetables, desserts, coffee, etc. You collect what you want and then pay at the end.

The coffee station lists various fancy coffees, including Cafe au Lait for $2.80 and Cafe Latte for $2.95. One is of French origin and the other Italian.

I catch the barista’s attention.

Me: “What’s the difference between these two coffees?”

Barista: “Fifteen cents.”

As I expected.