Ahi Tuna Nightmare

A good-looking couple in their 50’s sat in my section.  Everything started off smooth.  They chose a decent bottle of wine and there was general pleasant chitchat.    We began to discuss the menu and the wife asked if I preferred the Ahi tuna or the salmon. 

The damn preference question.

As severs, we get the “What do you prefer?” question all the time.   This is always a difficult question to answer (unless of course one dish really does suck and the other one is freaking fantastic).  Even still, everyone has different tastes.  And if we say one is better than the other and the guest ends up disliking or hating our selection, we feel like it’s our fault.  People love and hate the same dish all the time.  The best we can do is respond to this loathed question with overall guests’ opinions.

Using this logic, when her husband decided to order the Ahi, I suggested to the wife to order the salmon.  Unless I have 100% confidence that the guests will love the same dish, I will usually suggest the guests to choose two different items.   Lord help me if I suggest a dish which they both order and both end up hating it.

When I came back to get their order they both decided on the Ahi. Good.  She didn’t go with my suggestion.  I’m off the hook.  Hey, people want what they want.  He wanted his prepared sliced rare, sushi style.  She wanted hers seared rare, filet style.  I put the order into the computer.  As I walked by their table, the wife flagged me down.  I walked over, “Yes?”  She said, “You know what.  I changed my mind.  I want the salmon instead.”  Ugh.  Of course.  I politely responded, “Absolutely.  Let me go run back to the kitchen and let the chef know.” 

So now she chose what I originally suggested. 

I hustled back to the kitchen to tell them to change the seared rare Ahi to the salmon entrée.  Okay.  Not that big of a deal. 

Twenty minutes passed and the food was delivered.  I went over to check on them.  “How is everything?”  The lady gives me an odd look.  Uh oh.  She poked around her salmon for a bit and said, “You know. I hate to say this but it’s really greasy.  Way too much oil and butter.  It’s like I can feel the grease going directly to my forehead as I’m eating it.” 

Really lady.  Grease is going to your forehead...?   I’m not joking.  Those were her exact words. 

“I’m so sorry you feel that way,” I said apologetically. 

Case in point.  I told her to get the salmon and now it’s “greasy” and she doesn’t like it.   Salmon is an oily fish. Duh.  Who doesn’t love a buttery salmon?  Apparently this lady.  But whatever.  So now I feel like she hates the dish I recommended and therefore also hates me.   

Instead of the salmon, she decided she wants the Ahi after all.  Like she originally ordered.  Grrrrr.  She told me, “I just want exactly what he’s having,” as she pointed at her husband’s Ahi, which he’d ordered rare and sliced.

I ordered the Ahi in the computer and ran back to the kitchen again to tell them to rush it.  Within five minutes, the food runner brought out the Ahi.  Thankfully the kitchen rushed it and the Ahi came out quickly.  It was rare, after all.  That helps.  I ran over to check on her. 

“Everything great?” I asked.   She replied, “Well I thought I ordered this seared rare.” 

Oh my god.  I can’t win with this woman!   

Okay, in her defense, when she first ordered it, yes she ordered it seared.  But when she ordered it the second time, she stated she wanted “exactly that.”  So that’s how I ordered it.

I felt defeated.  I had to explain myself.  “You said you wanted ‘exactly’ what he was eating.  I thought that’s what you meant: sliced rare like he ordered it.”  She looked annoyed.  I was definitely annoyed.  In a flash of genius, I thought of a brilliant follow up. “Also, now knowing you don’t like oil I thought you wouldn’t like it seared because the chef uses oil when he sears the fish.”

Boo-ya! 

The husband agreed.  “She’s fine. This is fine.”  She gave in, “ Yes this will work.” 

Thank god. 

After everything I went through – changing the order, re-ordering, rushing the re-order and rushing to the kitchen multiple times – and as apologetic and as genuine as I was - and I didn’t even charge them for her entrée because their dining experience was a nightmare (of course all because of her - but again whatever) -  they only tipped me a mere ten percent on the discounted check. 

High maintenance and low tippers.  The worst.  Yuck. 

If you’re going to be high maintenance, at least be nice about it ... and tip well.   And if you do have a dish preference question, please don’t hold it against the server if you don't’ like it. 

___ 

PS:  I don't let this kind of trivial stuff bother me.  Yes, it's annoying.  But after people like this leave the restaurant, I let the annoyance of the situation leave my brain as well.  And if you can't let it go, you shouldn't be waiting tables.  ~HK~

Los dos hombres argentinos

Two well-dressed men walked into our restaurant just as we were about to close for the night.  They arrived with a stroller… and an attitude.  In the stroller was a Louis Vuitton bag.   And in the designer bag (you've probably guessed it) a dog.

Wow. What am I in for.  AND they're arriving at closing time. Ugh.

As I approached the table, one of the men asked, “Can we move the heater closer to us?”  I explained the heater was for all guests (and it was already closest to their table). I also informed him there was an additional heater above them.  He gave me a disgruntled look.  I asked if he would like a blanket.  He eagerly accepted and when I brought it he placed it on the Louis Vuitton bag, providing an extra layer of warmth for their pampered doggie.  He then asked for another one for himself. 

It wasn’t even cold out. 

They spoke to each other in Spanish. And the one I’d been speaking with (wearing a lovely scarf) spoke decent English.  I recognized the accent as not being from Mexico, which of course, is the most common Spanish speaking clientele at our restaurant.   I immediately asked them where they were from.  Their eyes opened and they smiled.  “Hablas Español?”  I smiled and replied, “Si, yo lo hablo.”  Their attitude changed immediately.  They were shocked, relived and instantly became friendlier. 

As it turned out, they were from Buenos Aires and were traveling all over the US for the first time. Because I’d been to Buenos Aires a few times and I was familiar with South America, we completely hit it off at that point.  We talked about Argentina, Punta del Este in Uruguay and other places we’d traveled to in South America.   He went on and on… and I did too. Who doesn’t love to connect with strangers through common countries and places they’ve visited in the world.

I got caught up in it all and finally realized it was twenty minutes after closing.  I finally took their orders as the kitchen was about to close.  I ran back to the kitchen to tell the chef that was my last order of the night.  He looked at me like, “It better be.” 

Oops.  My bad. 

At the table next to the Argentinians were two blonde women in their mid -20’s sharing multiple bottles of wine. They were pretty tipsy at this point in the evening.  They were both dog lovers and easily convinced the doting dog owner to allow them to pet their little one.  He unzipped the Louis Vuitton bag and unveiled their little black wiener dog / princesa.  The girls awed in loving amusement.  He placed “Frita” on the blonde’s lap.  She shouted, “She’s so soft and smells sooooo good.”  She held her up and asked me to smell her.   Weird.  But I accepted.  I took a sniff.  Wow.  She actually smelled quite amazing.  She had apparently been doused in perfume.  She smelled better than most woman, myself included.  The big man told us the perfume name and said that’s “her favorite.” 

Oh em gee.  I think that perfume must be HIS favorite.

The blonde who wasn’t holding the perfumed princess took off and had to leave due to “boy issues.”  So the remaining blonde and the Argentinian, the one who spoke decent English, chummed up and talked non-stop.  I felt bad for his lover not only because he didn’t speak any English and was completely left out of the conversation, but I think he actually got jealous.  But his annoyances were justified.  If he wasn’t gay, I bet his partner and the blonde would have exchanged phone numbers and met up for after-dinner drinks.

An hour after closing and the Argentinians were still nibbling their well-done steaks (of course they ordered their steaks “well done” as my last late table of the night).  The blonde and the big gay-considering-to-play-ball-for-the-other-team guy continued on and on and on... borderline flirting and laughing with no end in site.

I’m never getting out of here.

Finally, about two hours after closing, the blonde decided either she’d had enough to drink or realized his partner was ready to leap across the table and strangle her, she cashed out and stumbled off into the night.   About 15 minutes later, the couple realized they were the only people left in the restaurant (yes it really took them this long to realize this) and asked for the check. 

Por Fin!  (Finally.)

I sent my Colombian busser out to pick up some remaining dishes hoping to speed things along.   BAD mistake.  He’s young, good looking AND speaks fluent Spanish (of course). 

WHAT was I thinking.

Now the jealous Argentinian had a chance to get even.  He talked and talked to my busser asking everything from other good restaurants with ocean views, to live music venues to nightclubs in the area.  I think another twenty minutes went by before that conversation ended.    

They set cash down to pay and chatted a bit more with me.  It was two and a half hours after closing time when they finally left.

What a doozie. 

However, when it was all said and done, and I was at home in my jammies, I realized how much I really enjoyed the big gay Argentinians, the dog-loving tipsy blonde and the wonderfully scented Dachshund named Frita.  ~ HK ~

Hysterical Reservation Note

Highly renowned, fine-dining restaurants with a view will always attract guests who come to celebrate something special.  From birthdays to anniversaries, to promotions and retirements, we see and serve them all. 

On special occasions, guests usually mention other requests in addition to the reason for their celebration:

~  We’d like a romantic table with the best view in the house.

~  I’d like a chilled bottle of Veuve Brut Yellow Label ready at the table when we arrive.

~  We’d like a quiet, private dining area.

These are normal reservation notes. 

However on this particular evening, the reservation note I'd just been handed was far from anything normal:

 Insert giggly laughter. 

My Sherlock Holmes instinct kicked in and a wave of questions and hypothetical scenarios entered my brain:

~ Seriously? 

~ Is this guy for real? 

~ Am I on Impractical Jokers? 

~  Is she really that embarrassed about the hickey or is he the one who is truly embarrassed? 

~  Did a previous server mention something about the hickey and it ruined their night out?   

~  Is the hickey from another man and bringing it up would remind him of her infidelity? 

~  If I mention the hickey, will she immediately slap him?
~  He did say "she gets embarrassed." as in, continuously.  As in ongoing.  As in... he probably gives        her hickeys on a regular basis.  Something is definitely wrong with this guy.  

~  Perhaps they have enemies who practice Voodoo and they've been cursed and are actually teenagers trapped inside of adult bodies (that might actually be the most logical explanation, being that it parallels the level of maturity of this tween-man's comment...).

As I approached their table, all of a sudden I got nervous.  How the hell am I not going to look at her neck!  After all of this, it’s inevitable.  Crap. 

I greeted them with my usual dialog.  But every ounce in my body was thinking about that damn hickey.  I tried so hard not to giggle.  I could barely look at tween-man straight in the face.  Is he thinking what I'm thinking?  Hickey.  Hickey.  Hickey.  Is she thinking it too?  Damn you Law of Attraction! 

I finished my introduction and walked away... barely hanging on. 

Did I just have a conversation with them?  I think I just had an out of body experience.  I don’t remember anything I just said, let alone what they said.  What did they just order to drink? 

I made it back to the side station and took a deep breath.  My co-worker and I looked at each other.  He eagerly smiled and pried, “So, did you look at it?!”  Disappointed and baffled I replied, “I don't think so.   I think she had a scarf on…But... Actually I don’t even know what just happened.  I don't remember a word I just said. ” We died laughing. 

I was focusing so hard on not looking at her hickey, my brain literally couldn't function in it's normal capacity.  

I will never crack this Sherlock Holmes mystery.  But it will forever remain in my brain as one of the most bizarre and hilarious restaurant reservation notes of all time.

I really can't make this stuff up.  ~ HK ~

I encourage my readers and followers to comment on this and tell me your opinion about why you think he “warned” me about the hickey.  

And additionally, I encourage everyone to write funny reservation notes to mess with their servers.  It really does make our shifts much more memorable and highly entertaining.

Mister I-Do-What-I-Want Yacht Douche

This super douche flew in and out of my life as quickly as the freak storm Hurricane Odile brought to San Diego.  Thank god it was over quickly. 

San Diegans had been experiencing record heat and humidity for several days due to Hurricane Odile which pummeled into Cabo San Lucas last week.  One afternoon during this sweaty week, an abrupt and wild storm pounded our city.  Flash floods, wind and lightning slammed through San Diego in a blaze of fury. 

Just as the wind picked up and the sky darkened, two guys ran under an awning and sat in my section to take cover.   One of the guys sat down with two slices of pizza on a paper plate and a beer in a plastic cup.  Really dude?  

I had to regulate. 

I walked over and sternly, yet pleasantly, said, “You can't have that here.  This is a restaurant.  No outside food or beverage is allowed.  I’m sorry.”  He piped up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  It looks like it’s going to rain!  We needed shelter. “  Yeah.  To shelter your pizza and beer.   I rebutted.  “You are more than welcome to eat and drink that in a closed section of this restaurant under an umbrella.  But these tables are reserved for customers only.”   His friend chimed in.  “I’ll get a beer.”  Fine... but still not pleased.   I looked at Mister I-do-What-I-Want and said, “Please finish that as quickly as possible because I will get in trouble if my manager sees this.”  Not really true.  However it’s always good to blame the manager when you’re regulating a guest so they don’t get mad at you.  You always want to have a good relationship with the guest.  They do, after all, pay your bills.

I brought the guy his beer.  Of course right when I brought the beer, Mister I-Do-What-I-Want had finished his ghetto beer and pizza and said, “You know I think I'll take a beer too.”  Douche.  A pet peeve of all servers is when a guest orders a drink right when you just brought the other person one.  Unbelievably time wasting.  Like… really you didn’t know two minutes ago you were going to want another one?  Douche. 

I took his plastic beer cup, paper plate and napkins and threw them in the trash.  When I came back with his beer, he informed me that his friend just bought a yacht and they were celebrating.  Really?  Celebrating a yacht purchase with two slices and a beer out of a plastic cup?  Maybe someone should have bought a yacht in the next price tier down. 

I noticed they were both wearing the same yacht company tee shirt.  I asked jokingly, “Did these shirts come with the purchase of the yacht? “ Of course they did.    Then Mister I-Do-What-I-Want said, “Wow.  You’re a lot less mean now.”  Oh hell no.  I replied, “Sir I was never mean.  I was just stern and needed you to understand the rules.”  He then said, “Well it was kind of attractive actually.”  Ewe.  Did he really just flirt with me?  Super douche. 

After several long minutes of yacht banter he asked for the check.  Only two beers: under $15.  He left me three dollars.   You'd think after everything he'd put me through he'd at least hook me up with five bucks.  Again, wrong yacht price tier. 

Douche. 

Guess you have to have a douche at your table every now and again to help you appreciate the cool and law abiding guests even more.  

And for the record, it never rained while the douche was there. ~HK~