August 3: Please Pass the Vulgarity

As a waiter, I witness guests with looks of frustration at neighboring tables all the time. I've had to apologize for loud and inconsiderate groups that may have had one too many margaritas and I've even taken the liberty of telling junior high kids that they weren't the only patrons of the restaurant.

I can remember times when I was growing up that my family was the aggravated group that had to deal with hyper, disobedient tykes. I'm sure I was a part of an irritating table or two in high school, but rarely can I remember sitting in a booth and being cognitively embarrassed to be a part of the group I was with.

After spending the day floating the river, I found myself tired, hungry, and slightly inebriated as I slid into a booth with three people whom I had never met before the day had started. The conversation started casually enough with topics ranging from places of origin to vegetarianism. The orders were taken and the food was delivered as an elder couple was seated directly behind us in the neighboring booth. The woman and I made eye contact for a brief second as she sat facing our table and (who I presume to be) her husband sat with his back to us.

As if on cue, my table's conversation immediately shifted into the always-popular topic of sex. (On a side note, why am I the only person in the world that doesn't have any interest in sharing my experiences with peers? What I do with a girl is her and my business only. I've never had any desire to run to my male friends and describe in detail what I've been doing.) Words that included rape, anal, and foreplay were tossed around and were delivered with that extra pop that all provocative words and phrases possess. Expletives, stories of the loss of innocence and the spread of sexual corruption were traded like baseball cards on a playground.

The image of those aged blue eyes and soft smile kept replaying in my memory as the stories grew more and more promiscuous and vulgar. I remained silent and included the complimentary nod so as not to be seen as antisocial, but I was nevertheless embarrassed to be seen as a part of this group. To our booth neighbors, I was still guilty by association.

Did they say anything to us? No. Did they say anything to each other? I don't know. They never gave any indication that they were annoyed by our conversation and I didn't notice them shaking their heads in disgust at our low-brow topic. For all I know, our conversation never even made it to their table, but it doesn't change the way I feel about being in a group like that.

I may be aging myself here, but there's a time and a place for that kind of talk and a restaurant is not one of those places. Each of the four members at our table had a college education, so why couldn't we choose a more appropriate topic? I've always felt bad for people that can't have a good time without being interrupted by a rowdy group and today I was a part of one of those groups. I just hope that our conversation today didn't interfere with the couple's meal.

July 23: The Regular

This one goes out to all of you restaurant workers. What is the deal with the restaurant regular? I mean, really. I've worked at two other restaurants before the one I'm currently employed by. The first restaurant I worked at had it's regulars and I'm sure the second one did too. I only worked at the second one for six months so I didn't really notice anybody over and over again. The current one, however, tops them all.

Normally a restaurant regular is some lonely dude that sits at the bar every night, watches SportsCenter or the game of the day, has a few beers, maybe makes a creepy comment to a pretty young thing that sits next to him, and leaves. One guy, three or four beers, maybe something small to munch on, and that's it.

It's a whole different ballgame at this place. Families come in and sit in the dining room at least once a week. Couples come in and sit in the dining room every night. They order food every night. It's not always the same thing, but it's something. Do you want to know how bad it is? These "regulars" are so bad that they're invited to the company Christmas party; and they attend!

Now, I understand what's going on from a business' point of view. But what about a pride thing? Don't these people have any at all? Don't they realize how pathetic they look to everyone that works there? Every day? Really? They come in like it's no big deal. News flash: It's a giant deal. You eat dinner at the same place every single night of the week. "Gee, Honey. Where do you want to eat tonight?" Are you kidding me?!

Not only is it a pathetic display of having nothing better to do, but a funny thing happens to a person when they go to the same place over and over again; they believe they are above everyone else. All of a sudden it's okay for them to order off-menu items and make the strangest requests. They know the inventory better than the waiters so they know that the kitchen has cocktail sauce when it's no where to be found on the menu. They know to ask for refried black beans and white cheese on their nachos instead of the standard refried beans and yellow cheese.

I don't know about you, but if I ever found myself visiting a restaurant every day of the week and the entire staff knew who I was, I would feel a little intimidated come gratuity time. After all, I would be seeing the server the next day and remembering who I am goes a little further than face recognition. With that being said, how can that lady that doesn't tip anything at all continue to show her face?

I'm not exaggerating here either. This lady isn't an every day-er, but she still comes in once a week. She's not overly needy or bossy, but she never leaves a tip. Never. I had the pleasure of serving her once and when it was time to get her her change, I brought the exact amount hoping that she would at least leave the coins. Wrong. That ugly, fat chick took every last penny and left me nothing.

If you can't cook or you don't have any friends, going to the same restaurant is not the answer. I'm the perfect example. I can't cook and I don't have any friends, but I don't visit the local bar every night to get my chicken wings. I go through the drive-thru and I live on a steady diet of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts. If I had the money and the lack of pride to visit the same place every night, I would at least leave something and I definitely would not attend the company Christmas party. But that's just me.

July 6: Gratuity Not Included

It sits on the counter quietly as I wait in line. It stares at me as I walk forward and give my order. Silently, it screams at me and makes a scene. I'm the only one that can hear its calls. The girl behind the counter knows it's there as she spreads mayonnaise on my sandwich. She smiles to herself because she is aware of the internal struggle I'm having. The short, stout monster sits with its mouth open and waits for me to pay for my lunch. It begs. It pleads. It heckles and taunts.

Is there anything more (for lack of a better word) offensive than an empty pickle jug sitting next to a cash register? The jars/boxes/jugs are always covered with a piece of paper with the word Tips boldly written in black marker. Occasionally the sign will also include a colorful smiley face or some gold stars, but the message is always the same: Give me more money for a job that I'm already being paid to perform.

As an employee that makes his wages off of the graciousness of patrons, one might think my stance on the tip jar would be different. What you may or may not know though, is that I get paid $2.13 an hour without my tips. I'm counting on a guest to leave a tip. I pay my bills on those tips. The tip jar, however, is set up by an employee that is already making at least (and sometimes more) minimum wage.

Minimum wage isn't a lot of money, but that's the salary agreed to work for when hired. During the interview, I doubt the employer said, "You'll be making X amount of dollars an hour plus tips collected in a dirty, banged up jug. Feel free to decorate that jug to your liking."

I feel uncomfortable when sitting at a red light while a vagabond holds a cardboard sign that reads, "Will work for food." I don't like being approached by the homeless for money either. I get the same feeling when I'm paying for a sandwich and I see the tip jar sitting on the counter. I'm paying for the sandwich; not the service. I still have to pour my own drink and get my refills. I still have to throw away my trash. If I wanted service, I would go to a restaurant and have the sandwich served to me. Am I supposed to tip you for preparing my sandwich? Why don't I tip the cooks in a restaurant then?

Where do the tips stop? Do I tip the guy that comes out and replaces my windshield? I think you're supposed to tip your mailman and newspaper delivery guy every Christmas, but no one tips their mechanic. We tip our hair cutters and our masseuses, but why don't we tip our grocers and our doctors? In "The Robbery" episode of Seinfeld Jerry asks, "What do you tip a wood guy?" in reference to a wood delivery service. He then asks if he has to tip a gardener.

The line is definitely blurry. Who do you tip? Who don't you tip? I think it should be left up to the customer. Everyone knows you tip a waiter; that's a given. Everyone else is paid a salary. Putting a filthy jug on a counter where you pay for your sandwich is too much. If you don't tip, you're a cheap jerk. You're never thanked for your contributions so why bother? My solution: don't insult the guest with the jar in the first place. Get rid of it.