Waiter Rant: Thanks for the Tip--Confessions of a Cynical Waiter (P.S.)
Steve Dublanica
Language: English
Pages: 336
ISBN: 0061256692
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
According to The Waiter, 80 percent of customers are nice people just looking for something to eat. The remaining 20 percent, however, are socially maladjusted psychopaths.
Eye-opening, outrageous, and unabashed—replete with tales of customer stupidity, arrogant misbehavior, and unseen tidbits of human grace in the most unlikely places—Waiter Rant presents the server's unique point of view, revealing surefire secrets to getting good service, proper tipping etiquette, and ways to ensure that your waiter won't spit on your food.
all our past, present, and future experiences. We are, in the end, responsible for all our actions and the pain and joy it brings to others. The older I get, the more sense that belief system makes to me. Rizzo was a pistol-packing Buddhist, mind you, so he was attracted to the stranger and contradictory stories about his faith. 28 WA I T E R R A N T He loved telling me the story about the two Tibetan lamas who were such bitter enemies that, when they died, they tried using their considerable
shouldn’t be surprised. When people are stuffing their faces, they often let their guard down. Eating is a primal activity that triggers an array of emotional responses. Think of all the arguments that erupt around family dinner tables. Food and the human condition are inextricably linked. Because of this, waiters often get to see the unpleasant sides of people. Yet, amid all the petulance, anger, and entitlement, the occasional crumb of human grace falls from the table. I look at the boy and
once. Trust me, that’s miraculous for a chef. “I fired the food twenty minutes ago!” I yell back. Armando looks at the ticket, realizes I’m right, and flips me the bird. “You’re right this time,” he yells. “Don’t give up your day job,” I shout back. “Whatever.” “Move it,” yells Dawn, a young blond waitress tugging on my shirtsleeve. I step back. Dawn, impatient as usual, angrily tries to wedge past me. At that moment a bus person slams into my back. I fall forward. Dawn reaches out to steady me,
looking for a champagne bottle I dropped on the floor,” I reply. “It rolled under the tables somewhere.” “Smooth move,” Caesar says. “Real good.” “Could you help me look for it?” I ask innocently. “I’m really pressed for time.” The owner’s eyes retract into his skull. “You think I’m going to help you?” he hisses. “That’s your job, peasant.” Behind me I hear a diner gasp. Suddenly I’m aware that I’m on my hands and knees before a man who thinks nothing of insulting the people who work for him
sick, they don’t get the medical attention they need, and whatever’s sickening them gets worse or lasts longer than it has to. When cubicle warriors fall ill, they have insurance to cover their prescriptions and doctor’s visits. They have sick days to subsidize recovering on the couch while watching Nigella Lawson’s breasts bounce as she bakes a pie on TV. Bus people, dishwashers, and most waiters, however, don’t have that luxury. And don’t kid yourself; in America, health insurance and sick time