Hi, I'm Julian Sanchez. My friends call me "Dirty Sanchez," "Sancho," "Tubby Bitch," and sometimes "Jeff," because they really don't know who the hell I am. It's my girlfriend who's friends with everyone; I just sort of tag along. In fact, I spend most of our happy hours, dinners, and other gatherings gazing into my iPhone screen, typing desperately boring and misspelled Yelps and Tweets with my sausage thumbs.
So, last night, we all went out for one of my girlfriend's friend's birthdays, to some nice restaurant that they all like for some reason. I don't get it. I think the best meal in town is the "Big Ass Burger" at Carl's Jr. It goes down awesome with a vodka Red Bull, which is my favorite drink because it not only makes me go to the dark place, but it gives me plenty of energy to pick fights with strangers while I'm in it. Fuck yeah, dawg!
So there were about 14 of us—at least I think so—I only got ten fingers to count on, you know. And the waitress was this sassy little bitch—kept trying to act all smart, like talking to people about what wine they'd like to drink, or what beers were the "hoppiest." Shut up and refill my glass of ice so I can pour vodka Red Bull in it from the plastic bottle I brought in. Oh yeah, and bring more glasses of ice for this end of the table, so they can all drink free booze in your stupid fancy restaurant, too. Let the elitist assholes at the other end of the table drink your "wine" and "draft beer," thankyouverymuch.
Lucky for me, the restaurant likes my girlfriend's friends enough to have let us bring in our own hootch, because this party sucked; those guys weren't even looking my way or talking to me at all, which I didn't really care about because I had my iPhone and my vodka Red Bull. But when that smartass broad came to wipe down our table and set more silverware or whatever whoopty-doo-I'm-all-important-look-at-me thing she was doing, I was bored, so I said, "Hey! Hey!" and when I had our half of the table's attention, I pointed out how she was running her ass off.
Women like to hear stuff like that, like what a good job they're doing, blah blah blah. I expected her to high five me, or maybe suggest a meeting in the bathroom, you know? But instead she said, all snarky like, that she hoped that wasn't a "verbal tip," and when everyone asked what that was, she explained it. That it's when a customer says something really nice about a waitress and then tips her, like, 13% or something. They all thought that was funny for some reason but then this blonde lady next to me—no one was talking to her, either (I checked her out for a second, but she was fugly, a real butterface, if you know what I mean)—anyway, this hag says "Well, it's better than nothing." Man, you shoulda seen the hideous sneer on this witch when she said it! I wanted to high five her right there. The waitress was all, "Hey, I've got med school to pay off," like she's some fuckin' comedian or something, and the hag's husband or whatever laughed.
If there's one thing I hate, it's chicks getting the last laugh. So when she split all our checks and laid them down, announcing that she forgot to put a gratuity on 'em but she's not worried because they're all regulars or whatever, blah blah blah and they all had their cutesy laugh and lovefest, I showed her.
On the tip line of my credit card receipt, I drew an unhappy face with tears spraying out of it and wrote "wah wah wah!" Ha ha! I nearly had to put down my iPhone to keep my hands steady I was so excited. I kind of hoped a little that she'd confront me about it so I could choke the life outta her. I told you I go to the dark place, yo.
When we all walked out to our car, I saw her standing outside with the chef and owner who had come talked to our table before. She had brought out a signed menu for their birthday and all this stuff. I bet she thinks she's so great. I just stood there in the parking lot and they were looking at me and I was looking at them, and although it was dark, I'm pretty sure she could see the truth, cause it was right there in my eyes. I'm the fuckin' king. You mess with me, I'm gonna mess with you.
Later, some joker said that they hoped she didn't find out where I worked and somehow find a way to mess with my income. Whatever. A dumb waitress wouldn't know how to do that.
Would she?
Showing posts with label tipping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tipping. Show all posts
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Eggs Benedict Arnold
I'm finally done with the restaurant guide and can begin to till the stinky soil of these posts with some more waitressing rants and stories. I am grateful for the opportunity to vent whenever, in the course of my work, I had to brush up against the rancid pus lake that is Yelp, and all of its unholy tributaries of meritless conjecture like CitySearch, Chowhound, and The Austin Chronicle. *wink!*
I will miss statements like "First of all, I don't know if I'm dining at the wrong places but the sushi in TX is not as fresh as in Chicago."
I'm working on an essay about the experience of being a waitress-restaurant critic (a real, paid one bound by ethical and professional standards). It's called "Turncoat: The Eggs Benedict Arnold Story."
I've been working a lot of brunches lately. Something I never thought I'd do after shacking up with a guy whose predilection towards eating brunch together over the Sunday NY Times is such that, when threatened by other plans - like a party or dim sum invitation with, shudder, other people; or being in a dusty West Texas town with no NY Times in it - he actually gets inside the laundry basket and cowers there, weeping.
Brunch can be really great. It's fast as hell, so time passes more quickly; and the turnover is high, so even if a table has really bad mojo ("I'll just have water;" or "I'm too hungover/tired/stuck up inside my own asshole to say 'please' and 'thank you.'"), they'll be out of your life in no time. The energy among the waitstaff is funny, too, as we all are cranked up on coffee, adrenaline, or that crack-in-a-cup 5-Hour Energy, plus the insistent willpower to not fall apart at the expo line when an order of French toast has taken 30 minutes in the middle of the rush.
If working the dining room on a Friday or Saturday night can feel for an hour like battle, brunch is three hours of a dirty, bloody, cheek-rending, hair-pulling South Carolina bar fight. Someone's definitely getting fucked against their will.
Worst of all, the ratio of uptight, middle-aged (I'm calling 55 and higher middle-aged, because, come on...45 is still pretty fucking happening) church-goers is noticeably higher, and so the tip percentage goes down to an average of 13-15% from the standard fine dining 20%. Evangelicals look for any reason to obliterate that tip, so Sunday brunch must be like heaven for them.
The justification for a lower brunch tip cannot be that brunch somehow requires less work - certainly not. We wake up at 7:30 am on a Sunday, while most of our peers are peacefully snoring or having morning sex, to come down here and pour cup after cup of coffee for you. By the time most of the city is awake and kayaking around the lake, walking their dogs in the park, or kicking back with some huevos rancheros on a sunny patio with friends, we are delivering our 50th eggs Benedict to some sneering hag who apparently requires a hose to constantly pour decaf down her miserable gullet.
But you know, we also get the industry people - tables of four waiters and waitresses with sunglasses on, the cracking voices of those who have partied hard and are enjoying their day off, who applaud joyfully when you bring them mimosas, who are happy to be alive and eating lots of good food and not serving the assholes at the table next to them.
I hereby decree that everyone work a Sunday brunch once a year, if only to appreciate how wonderful it is not to. I am happy to be back amongst you, diners and colleagues - antagonistic though you may sometimes be. Although I find criticism - in its classic form - to be useful and necessary, a constant reminder of the gold standard by those who are exquisitely qualified in contextual analysis, I find it a bit like butchery - best left to those with the stomach for it.
I will miss statements like "First of all, I don't know if I'm dining at the wrong places but the sushi in TX is not as fresh as in Chicago."
I'm working on an essay about the experience of being a waitress-restaurant critic (a real, paid one bound by ethical and professional standards). It's called "Turncoat: The Eggs Benedict Arnold Story."
I've been working a lot of brunches lately. Something I never thought I'd do after shacking up with a guy whose predilection towards eating brunch together over the Sunday NY Times is such that, when threatened by other plans - like a party or dim sum invitation with, shudder, other people; or being in a dusty West Texas town with no NY Times in it - he actually gets inside the laundry basket and cowers there, weeping.
Brunch can be really great. It's fast as hell, so time passes more quickly; and the turnover is high, so even if a table has really bad mojo ("I'll just have water;" or "I'm too hungover/tired/stuck up inside my own asshole to say 'please' and 'thank you.'"), they'll be out of your life in no time. The energy among the waitstaff is funny, too, as we all are cranked up on coffee, adrenaline, or that crack-in-a-cup 5-Hour Energy, plus the insistent willpower to not fall apart at the expo line when an order of French toast has taken 30 minutes in the middle of the rush.
If working the dining room on a Friday or Saturday night can feel for an hour like battle, brunch is three hours of a dirty, bloody, cheek-rending, hair-pulling South Carolina bar fight. Someone's definitely getting fucked against their will.
Worst of all, the ratio of uptight, middle-aged (I'm calling 55 and higher middle-aged, because, come on...45 is still pretty fucking happening) church-goers is noticeably higher, and so the tip percentage goes down to an average of 13-15% from the standard fine dining 20%. Evangelicals look for any reason to obliterate that tip, so Sunday brunch must be like heaven for them.
The justification for a lower brunch tip cannot be that brunch somehow requires less work - certainly not. We wake up at 7:30 am on a Sunday, while most of our peers are peacefully snoring or having morning sex, to come down here and pour cup after cup of coffee for you. By the time most of the city is awake and kayaking around the lake, walking their dogs in the park, or kicking back with some huevos rancheros on a sunny patio with friends, we are delivering our 50th eggs Benedict to some sneering hag who apparently requires a hose to constantly pour decaf down her miserable gullet.
But you know, we also get the industry people - tables of four waiters and waitresses with sunglasses on, the cracking voices of those who have partied hard and are enjoying their day off, who applaud joyfully when you bring them mimosas, who are happy to be alive and eating lots of good food and not serving the assholes at the table next to them.
I hereby decree that everyone work a Sunday brunch once a year, if only to appreciate how wonderful it is not to. I am happy to be back amongst you, diners and colleagues - antagonistic though you may sometimes be. Although I find criticism - in its classic form - to be useful and necessary, a constant reminder of the gold standard by those who are exquisitely qualified in contextual analysis, I find it a bit like butchery - best left to those with the stomach for it.
Friday, December 5, 2008
On Tipping
Tipping For Imbeciles (and there are a surprising number of you out there - if not you, the people you are dining with. Please share this information with them next time you go out to eat):
$42 --> $8 (don't worry about small change)
$13 --> is this you and your fucking high school theater friends sharing a plate of cheese fries and some coffee for two and a half hours while singing show tunes and popping creamers open on your face like zits? Leave 100% Sometimes I think crappy tips are my comeuppance for my nightlife between the ages 15 & 17.
Students and young parents, trying to eke out a living while pursuing something that will better sustain them and their families. They may have found themselves in a difficult situation and are diligently working their way out of it in a job that affords them scheduling flexibility and the opportunity to control their income with picking up extra shifts or getting lucky. This is where you come in. They may not have terrific command of the spoken word, make you feel all terrific about your choice of the pork chop over the chicken, or be able to tell you where your chardonnay came from, but they care about their jobs and your experience. This is a basic service and should be rewarded justly. Everyone is trying to make it out there, these people gave you something with kindness and efficiency. In this day and age, that's rarer than you think.
The professional.Otherwise known as "lifers," this group is composed not entirely of people who have fallen hopelessly in love with the restaurant world, with great food and wine, with the rigors and excitement of throwing a party night after night, for strangers, and watching some of those strangers become regulars and friends. Some of these people may act like they don't love their job - may in fact be plotting their escape into rock stardom, film, journalism or stand-up comedy - but don't be fooled: they're hooked. They read the Wednesday edition of the Times, know who Ruth Reichl is, and care about how the food looks when the kitchen puts it on the expo line. They'll lovingly rub a wet cloth around the rim of your plate, they'll explain their favorite dishes on the menu to you as if you were their own mother and father out to eat with them, they'll insist you try a new wine because it's a revelation with the rabbit! These people try (and sometimes manage to) not just to serve you food, but enlighten you. They are forged over countless evenings with the ability to "read" you right away, and know if they should silently support whatever experience you wish to have, or show you a good time. These are people who do it for the love and pride - many have degrees, even advanced degrees, but they chose to be with you and your miserable ass tonight, and they might have even made you feel better. That is priceless. That is worth 30% and more. Still feeling fussy about that? Imagine a world in which the only servers - no matter how upscale, chef-driven and exciting the restaurant - are type #1, because no one else will stay in this profession if you all tipped negligently.
- 18% is the universally-understood industry standard for service you really can't kvell about, but that certainly didn't detract from your experience. 18. Not 15. 15 is universally understood as cheap and ignorant, in finer dining places. Why should the type of restaurant make you tip more? We'll get to that.
- 20% is soooooo easy to figure out, it's painful. Move the decimal back one place and double it. Let's try a few practice runs:
$42 --> $8 (don't worry about small change)
$13 --> is this you and your fucking high school theater friends sharing a plate of cheese fries and some coffee for two and a half hours while singing show tunes and popping creamers open on your face like zits? Leave 100% Sometimes I think crappy tips are my comeuppance for my nightlife between the ages 15 & 17.
- Verbal tippers will share a ring of hell with TV evangelists, CEOs of pharmaceutical companies, and orderlies who abuse their patients. Seriously, there is no more fundamentally malicious joke on earth like you going on and on about what a great server I was and asking for my name again and patting my manager on the back on the way out going "She was fantastic!" and then leaving me 15%. I appreciate the warm fuzzies and all, but I'll appreciate them even more in front of a warm radiator this winter, assface.
- Okay, for those of you wondering why you should tip a server 20% or more - those holdouts from the Reagan years going, It's not my fault this dipshit chose to be a waiter - mainstream servers are generally divided into three strata:
Students and young parents, trying to eke out a living while pursuing something that will better sustain them and their families. They may have found themselves in a difficult situation and are diligently working their way out of it in a job that affords them scheduling flexibility and the opportunity to control their income with picking up extra shifts or getting lucky. This is where you come in. They may not have terrific command of the spoken word, make you feel all terrific about your choice of the pork chop over the chicken, or be able to tell you where your chardonnay came from, but they care about their jobs and your experience. This is a basic service and should be rewarded justly. Everyone is trying to make it out there, these people gave you something with kindness and efficiency. In this day and age, that's rarer than you think.
The professional.Otherwise known as "lifers," this group is composed not entirely of people who have fallen hopelessly in love with the restaurant world, with great food and wine, with the rigors and excitement of throwing a party night after night, for strangers, and watching some of those strangers become regulars and friends. Some of these people may act like they don't love their job - may in fact be plotting their escape into rock stardom, film, journalism or stand-up comedy - but don't be fooled: they're hooked. They read the Wednesday edition of the Times, know who Ruth Reichl is, and care about how the food looks when the kitchen puts it on the expo line. They'll lovingly rub a wet cloth around the rim of your plate, they'll explain their favorite dishes on the menu to you as if you were their own mother and father out to eat with them, they'll insist you try a new wine because it's a revelation with the rabbit! These people try (and sometimes manage to) not just to serve you food, but enlighten you. They are forged over countless evenings with the ability to "read" you right away, and know if they should silently support whatever experience you wish to have, or show you a good time. These are people who do it for the love and pride - many have degrees, even advanced degrees, but they chose to be with you and your miserable ass tonight, and they might have even made you feel better. That is priceless. That is worth 30% and more. Still feeling fussy about that? Imagine a world in which the only servers - no matter how upscale, chef-driven and exciting the restaurant - are type #1, because no one else will stay in this profession if you all tipped negligently.
- If you are going to tip poorly, dont take my pen. If you do take my pen, don't leave your shittier Kinko's-produced bic advertising your services as a real estate agent. If you think a waitress you just tipped 12% is in the market to buy or sell a house, I wouldn't trust you to find me an empty dumpster to sleep in, you dumb bitch. And another thing: I now know your work number. Your receptionist will be receiving a call with the results of your STD test sometime next week.
- If you tip shitty because it's the holidays and you think your money is tight, go to Jack in the Box. Word has it, they don't expect tips, and therefore don't build their lives on them, so that 15% will really make their day, whereas I am just an unappreciative asshole who has people waiting for your table that know how to budget for a meal out in a nice restaurant. Face!
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