What I Think About As I Take Your Order
Posted 11/11/2010 by Amy Kristen in Labels: amy kristen, food, humor, literature, restaurants, serving, waitress
“Good afternoon! My name is Amy, and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you started with—”
Oh, I’m sorry, did you not notice that I was in the middle of a sentence? It’s okay, you can interrupt me all you want. You are clearly so important that I’m dying to know what you have to say. Yes, you - you sallow misogynist who thinks I’m inconsequential enough that you can interrupt me during my well-rehearsed and entirely disingenuous greeting. Yes, I’m clearly inferior, because I’m wearing a bright yellow tie with portly dancing chefs galloping across the border while you’re wearing your favorite ill-fitted suit that your saggy ex-girlfriend bought you fifteen years ago, which not only stretches unflatteringly across your gut but also still has stains on it from that night you got so drunk at the office party you “accidentally” had an “easily misinterpreted somewhat-sexual encounter” with Carlos, the flamboyant new assistant in H.R., even though you’re “really not gay, not at all.” It’s true, I don’t have any unique thoughts of my own. I live to serve, all day, every day. So please, indulge me with your list of demands. Let me be thy faithful servant, oh master of thy business domain.
“Okay, so I have two garden salads, both with dressing on the side. Is that all for you today?”
God, those things are HUGE. I’m trying not to look at them while I talk to you, but they’re practically tapping me on the shoulder and saying “Hey. Hey. Hey.” over and over again until I pay attention to them. I’m sure your husband/boyfriend/one-night-stand sent your plastic surgeon a large gift basket from Harry and David filled with those nasty sausages and cheese spreads that never expire when you brought home those giant globes. Your bra seems so strained by their mass that I’m certain in just a few moments they will leap forth from your chest and roll out the front door, and then you, me, and your bored-looking frenemy (who glares at you every time you look down to adjust your ridiculously low-cut blouse) are all going to share a rather uncomfortable moment together.
“Do you want that with French fries, salad, fruit, coleslaw, a baked potato, rice pilaf, or everything kind of mashed up into one?”
I’m trying so hard to be funny, to pretend I don’t absolutely despise everything about you and your desperate need for order most likely derived from your upbringing in a strict household where no one ever said “I love you.” I can’t wait to find out how well you like your burger cooked. Please, demand that I bring you an extra-extra well done burger with fries that are extra-extra crispy (because if they’re too soggy you’ll send them back, which I know you’ll do no matter what) as well as a pint of pale ale because clearly if you don’t get some alcohol in your system immediately you’ll take that blunt knife I’ve just set down in front of you and attempt to drive it straight into your heart. Sadly, any such suicide attempt would inevitably fail because the layer of fat that covers the distance between your skin and your heart is just too deep. I’m sorry, is the table dirty? Let me clean it off with this rag, which I just used to clean the bathroom.
“Well, Ma’am, the noodles are actually already in the soup, because it’s pre-made, so… Really? You’ve gotten it that way before? … I SAID, YOU’VE GOTTEN IT WITHOUT NOODLES BEFORE? … I see. Okay, I’ll pick the noodles out for you. I SAID, I’LL TAKE THE NOODLES OUT FOR YOU.”
I hate old people.
“…No, I’m sorry, we don’t have kids’ menus. Nope, no baby formula, either. Actually, we should probably move this stroller out of the walkway…”
You, lady, should not be allowed out in public with your overabundance of offspring. You need to make your shrieking infant cease its sorry display of discontent immediately, or I am likely to push this stroller right out of this building and into the parking lot. It’s highly probable that you won’t even notice and will remain at your table sans-baby because the rest of your exasperating clan will be tugging on your frizzy hair and throwing macaroni and cheese on the wall and peeing in their pants and pinching each other and climbing onto the table and shouting profanities they picked up from your numerous fights with your worthless husband who’s sleeping with Margie, your spotty next-door neighbor, because you now abhor the very idea of sex. Please do everyone a favor and go back to your car, take a little trip to the nearest fast-food drive-through, go home, and don’t come back out into society until your children are all at least 20 years old.
“Just so you know, we’re getting ready to close, so whenever you’re ready, I’ll take your check…”
Seriously, you guys? Can you break away from each other for just one minute? It’s very sweet and romantic that you are so in lust – I mean, love – but have you really not noticed that you are the only customers still here? The busboys are sweeping underneath your feet, we’ve turned off all the lights, there’s no more music playing, and the manager is standing at the front door twirling the key. It’s easy, really. First, you remove your hand from inside his pants and then you take your tongue out of her ear and then you pay your check and then I wipe up after you, count my meager earnings, and go home to my vibrator and Michael Bublé CD.
“Alright, here’s your check back. Thank you so much for coming in! Have a lovely day.”
Please please please be a secret billionaire who will leave me an unusually generous tip because I’m so wonderful and pleasant and because you’ve never seen anyone be so diligent about making sure your breadbasket was consistently full. Look at my smile. This is the smile of a desperate college graduate who is secretly brilliant but just hasn’t gotten around to utilizing her full abilities. I promise I will spend your money wisely. However, I cannot promise I will be nice to you if you come back, because you have the most offensive body odor I’ve ever encountered.
-- Amy Kristen
2 comment(s) to... “What I Think About As I Take Your Order”
2 comments:
this girl is great! SO lol worthy!
I am NEVER eating in a restaurant again.
Post a Comment