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This is my first post - yay! This is my favoritest story to tell. (This is copied from a blog of mine, so it doesn't conform to the usual script-like posts that others usually do on here.)
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While working as a server/bartender at a bar & grill, during one lunch shift during the week last year:
Guess who I served lunch to? None other than C*** A*****’s (celebrity from NC) mother! And I messed up her order too – yay!
I knew it was Ms. A***** because the other servers had pointed her out to me before. She is an older lady who, despite her attractiveness, wears too much makeup. She was joined by another older lady and an older gentleman. I use the term “gentleman” loosely – the guy was a total dickwad douche. Let’s call him Dick for short.
When I took everyone’s order, Dick explained that he wanted 2 hot dogs – but what did Carolina style mean? I told him it meant the dogs were topped with cheese, chili, onions, and cole slaw (“slaw” to Southerners – or, rather, “slah”). He said he’d prefer to have mustard, chili, and onions on the hot dogs.
“Okay,” I said, used to people customizing their orders, “we can do that for you.”
After placing their order in the computer, I brought a few mustard packets over to the table. Because our food usually doesn’t come with the common condiments, ketchup bottles are always supplied on the table and mustard is brought only if someone requests it. He looked at the packets as I set them on the table and said – I swear to God -, “Could you ask the cook to spread this mustard on the toasted buns before he puts the hot dogs on them. You know, so I don’t have to do it at the table?”
What? Um, okay…. Let us consider these few points:
1) We always supply people with the appropriate equipment required to spread condiments – i.e. a knife.
2) Last time I checked this wasn’t a four-star restaurant. I’m dressed in dirty blue jeans with splotches of spilled beer. There is a corner of the bar that smells like vomit.
3) Have you met the cook? I get scared simply asking for a thimble-size amount of Ranch dressing for another table.
So I put on my brave face and entered the kitchen to tell the cook about the special request.
“He WHAT?”
“Um, he wants you to put mustard on the buns so he doesn’t have to.”
Normally a man never at loss for words, Cook just stared at me with his mouth open.
“Yeah,” I said, always glad for a moment when it’s Cook & Me vs SC. It’s a much more pleasant state than Cook vs Me. “I think he wants you to lick his balls, too.”
Ah, I’m so damn witty.
When the food for the table was I ready, I carried all three plates out to set down at the same time. Mama A***** looked down at her plate confused. What now? She had ordered the Fried Shrimp; I had accidentally brought her the smaller appetizer version instead of the dinner plate like she wanted. Whatever – my bad. An easy fix. She’s wasn’t hateful about it, just icy.
Meanwhile, Dick grew more and more agitated as he glared down at his food. His ugly face crumpled up into complete disgust. He bordered on completing freaking out. “Why are there beans on my hotdog!?” he spat at me.
“Well, sir, you said you wanted mustard, onions, and chili..”
“But WHY are there beans in the chili? Who puts beans in chili on a hot dog!?”
I apologized and offered to have the hot dogs remade. He refused, huffing and puffing. Now that was what an Adult Tantrum looks like.
“Well, would you like to order something else from the menu?”
“No, frankly I’m SCARED to order anything else!” After thinking for a moment, he barked, “Just give me a plain hamburger. You DON’T put beans on a hamburger, DO YOU?”
All right, old man, fucking bite me.
Have you ever seen a wrestling match where one opponent is paralyzed to defend himself and so gets plummeted with blow after blow? There is really only one option after that, tag your teammate to take over. I was sooo out of there.
Ms. A******* and her female companion kept still during this commotion, neither joining his tirade nor apologizing for his ridiculous behavior. Their faces did not express any sort of reaction. Perhaps they were used to his attitude, perhaps it was botox.
And who exactly was Dick? C****’s father? Uncle? I guess I’ll never know.
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While working as a server/bartender at a bar & grill, during one lunch shift during the week last year:
Guess who I served lunch to? None other than C*** A*****’s (celebrity from NC) mother! And I messed up her order too – yay!
I knew it was Ms. A***** because the other servers had pointed her out to me before. She is an older lady who, despite her attractiveness, wears too much makeup. She was joined by another older lady and an older gentleman. I use the term “gentleman” loosely – the guy was a total dickwad douche. Let’s call him Dick for short.
When I took everyone’s order, Dick explained that he wanted 2 hot dogs – but what did Carolina style mean? I told him it meant the dogs were topped with cheese, chili, onions, and cole slaw (“slaw” to Southerners – or, rather, “slah”). He said he’d prefer to have mustard, chili, and onions on the hot dogs.
“Okay,” I said, used to people customizing their orders, “we can do that for you.”
After placing their order in the computer, I brought a few mustard packets over to the table. Because our food usually doesn’t come with the common condiments, ketchup bottles are always supplied on the table and mustard is brought only if someone requests it. He looked at the packets as I set them on the table and said – I swear to God -, “Could you ask the cook to spread this mustard on the toasted buns before he puts the hot dogs on them. You know, so I don’t have to do it at the table?”
What? Um, okay…. Let us consider these few points:
1) We always supply people with the appropriate equipment required to spread condiments – i.e. a knife.
2) Last time I checked this wasn’t a four-star restaurant. I’m dressed in dirty blue jeans with splotches of spilled beer. There is a corner of the bar that smells like vomit.
3) Have you met the cook? I get scared simply asking for a thimble-size amount of Ranch dressing for another table.
So I put on my brave face and entered the kitchen to tell the cook about the special request.
“He WHAT?”
“Um, he wants you to put mustard on the buns so he doesn’t have to.”
Normally a man never at loss for words, Cook just stared at me with his mouth open.
“Yeah,” I said, always glad for a moment when it’s Cook & Me vs SC. It’s a much more pleasant state than Cook vs Me. “I think he wants you to lick his balls, too.”
Ah, I’m so damn witty.
When the food for the table was I ready, I carried all three plates out to set down at the same time. Mama A***** looked down at her plate confused. What now? She had ordered the Fried Shrimp; I had accidentally brought her the smaller appetizer version instead of the dinner plate like she wanted. Whatever – my bad. An easy fix. She’s wasn’t hateful about it, just icy.
Meanwhile, Dick grew more and more agitated as he glared down at his food. His ugly face crumpled up into complete disgust. He bordered on completing freaking out. “Why are there beans on my hotdog!?” he spat at me.
“Well, sir, you said you wanted mustard, onions, and chili..”
“But WHY are there beans in the chili? Who puts beans in chili on a hot dog!?”
I apologized and offered to have the hot dogs remade. He refused, huffing and puffing. Now that was what an Adult Tantrum looks like.
“Well, would you like to order something else from the menu?”
“No, frankly I’m SCARED to order anything else!” After thinking for a moment, he barked, “Just give me a plain hamburger. You DON’T put beans on a hamburger, DO YOU?”
All right, old man, fucking bite me.
Have you ever seen a wrestling match where one opponent is paralyzed to defend himself and so gets plummeted with blow after blow? There is really only one option after that, tag your teammate to take over. I was sooo out of there.
Ms. A******* and her female companion kept still during this commotion, neither joining his tirade nor apologizing for his ridiculous behavior. Their faces did not express any sort of reaction. Perhaps they were used to his attitude, perhaps it was botox.
And who exactly was Dick? C****’s father? Uncle? I guess I’ll never know.
). I Just wasn't sure if it was made in Texas or New Mexico... I know it was that area... it's the same area that TexMex comes from... and chili is DEFINITELY TexMex...
(the CSF learning center receptionist makes the best chile stew ever, I used to be the only one brave enough to have it for breakfast)
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