As the title says, all waiters hate me. And the word "hate," in this case, is an understatement. I'm convinced that the waiters and waitresses of the world have a voodoo doll of me that they stick pins into during their monthly Waiters of America meetings. Those, of course, are held in some seedy hotel in downtown Detroit.
No matter where I dine, or whom I'm with, or what I order, or what day it is, or what time of day it is, or what type of restaurant I go to, or what I wear, or how many times I've showered that week, the food server always manages to screw up my order. It's without fail. It happens all the time.
I don't know what I did to deserve this. I've thought about it, and I've come up with the following possibilities:
I potentially broke up with a girl in the past who eventually became a waitress. She was so scarred from the breakup that she vowed to take revenge. So, she traveled to New Orleans, found some weird voodoo person and had a doll made to represent me.
The waiters and waitresses are so appalled by how fat I am that they lose concentration and forget what I ordered.
The food servers are convinced I'll eat anything because I'm an obese individual, so they just #yolo my order.
I've made fun of some waiters before in Jerks of the Week, so they've dubbed me an "anti-waiterite."I swear to God, I am not an anti-waiterite!
Most waiters are incompetent a**holes who should die in a fire!
OK, OK, maybe I'm kidding about that last one, but the rate in which my orders are botched is ridiculous. I discussed one instance back in January when I tried ordering something at a place called Chow284:
The loud music disrupted our ordering process. I had to tell the waitress what I wanted like three times. I tried ordering a "giant turkey sandwich" while holding the mayonnaise and onions.
The food came out about 15 minutes later, and I immediately noticed that there were onions in the sandwich. There was no mayonnaise, fortunately, but I also didn't notice any cheese (it was supposed to come with Swiss). I tried complaining to the waitress.
Me: There are onions in here, and I don't see any cheese.
Waitress: What? The music's too loud!
Me: There are onions in here, and I don't see any cheese!
Waitress: There's a scab on my knees? Where!?
Me: THERE ARE ONIONS IN HERE, AND I DON'T SEE ANY CHEESE!
Waitress: Mr. Freeze!? No, he's not my favorite Batman villain!
Me: THERE ARE ONIONS IN HERE, AND I DON'T SEE ANY CHEESE!
Waitress: Oh!!! Onions and no cheese... I can take that back into the kitchen for you so they can fix it.
I thought about it, but declined her offer. I've been told by many people in the food industry to never send anything back into the kitchen. Best-case scenario, they spit in your food. Worst-case, the chef whacks off and splooges into your meal. That's exactly why I ask them to hold the mayonnaise. Some men enjoy swallowing splooge - not that there's anything wrong with that - but I'd rather avoid consuming it.
I've had worse experiences since then. Fortunately, there was no splooge involved. At least not that I know of...
There's a diner right down the street from my house. It has a creative name: Suburban Diner. It's convenient because it's right here, but I dread going there for meals because something always goes wrong. Back when I lost my power in the crazy snowstorm in February, I asked if I could use my laptop there, and the manager said I could "leave it charging by the exit," as if no one was going to take it. Then, there was one incident when my girlfriend and I went there for breakfast one morning.
I had a craving for cheesy eggs, so I asked our waitress, a frail woman in her 60s, for the American cheese omelet. I must emphasize that it actually said "American cheese omelet" on the menu, so it's not as if I made some adjustments while telling the waitress what I wanted.
The omelet came with toast and some sort of meat. I asked for white toast but with no butter on it. I hate butter. I like things plain. Why does every sort of food have to come with some gooey substance or some whacky condiment on it? I feel like you should specifically have to ask for butter. They shouldn't automatically stick a disgusting glob on your slice of bread without your permission. A**holes.
Anyway, my choice of meat was Canadian bacon. I would have went with normal bacon, but my girlfriend made some delicious bacon for me recently, and there was still some left over at my house. Why we didn't stay home and just eat Cocoa Puffs and bacon � the bacon being in the cereal, of course � is beyond me. I think we just were in the mood to go out, but I would end up regretting that decision.
Waiting for food was annoying. Not only did it take a while, but there were annoying kids all over the place. They wouldn't stop yelling and screaming, and I had the sudden urge to hurl my glass of chocolate milk at them. Alas, I only had one glass.
After what seemed like hours, our food had finally arrived. My girlfriend got exactly what she wanted. My meal, however, looked underwhelming. The omelet was small, there was butter on the toast, and I didn't see any Canadian bacon.
Me: Excuse me, I asked for no butter on the toast, and I also asked for Canadian bacon.
Waitress: Oh, I thought you wanted butter on your toast and you didn't want Canadian bacon.
Uhh... what? Why would I ask for butter on my toast when the menu explicitly mentioned that butter came with it? And here's a better question: If my meal came with some sort of meat, why would I specifically ask for no Canadian bacon? It's like if you withdrew money from a bank, and you told the teller you didn't want it in $100s, would they just not give you any money at all? It makes no damn sense.
The waitress walked away with the toast. My girlfriend began eating, and she soon noticed that I didn't start on my omelet. I told her I wanted everything together, so I wasn't going to start eating until the waitress brought everything back.
I expected to wait years for my toast and Canadian bacon, but the old woman returned after a few minutes. I don't know why it took her so long the first time, but I was grateful that I could finally stuff food into my mouth. She placed the Canadian bacon down first, and my mouth watered because it looked good. And then the toast... WHICH STILL HAD BUTTER ON IT!
I felt like flinging the toast at the old woman, but she probably would have slipped and fell, and then I'd owe her money because she shattered her hip or something. My girlfriend, noticing that I was upset, cleared the butter off the toast. Meanwhile, I took a bit of the omelet into my mouth, and was disappointed because it was bland. I then tried the Canadian bacon, which tasted like cardboard.
After a couple more bites of the omelet, I was convinced something was off. And that's when it hit me � there was no cheese in this omelet! This idiotic waitress gave me an American cheese omelet without American cheese.
My girlfriend asked why I didn't ask for a new cheese omelet � one that actually had cheese on it. I thought about it, but decided against it. It would probably take her another hour to bring it out, and even if she did, it would probably taste like cardboard, just like the Canadian bacon did.
I ate the rest of my breakfast in misery. An obese slob in misery.
My girlfriend and I were coming from the mall one afternoon sometime in the spring. It was about 4 p.m., so it wasn't the normal time for dinner yet, but we were both starving. We were approaching this pizza joint named Angela's. We had eaten there before, and it turned out to be a fantastic meal. We had a meat lover's pizza, but that wasn't the best part. We ordered these buffalo chicken strips, which were awesome. They also had these delicious mozzarella bites that came for free. I'm sweating just thinking about those.
I haven't been to Angela's since. Our experience there after that spring day was that terrible.
Our waitress was this brunette. She would've been attractive, but she had this hideous butterfly tattoo on her neck. I like some tattoos, but this one was just obnoxious. And I'd like to know her thought process behind getting that one. Did she think it would make her prettier? Did she ever wonder what would happen if she stopped liking butterflies? Like, what if she was driving her car one day, and a butterfly landed on her windshield, and she got so distracted that she got into an accident and killed the passenger? Would she regret the butterfly tattoo then?
Butterfly Waitress was extremely incompetent. In fact, I'm willing to call her the worst waitress in the history of humanity. She was guilty of the following during our meal:
She didn't give us straws for our sodas.
She didn't bring us any silverware.
She didn't ask if everything was OK at all.
She didn't bring us the check.
We had to go up to her every single time. All she did was sit down and text on her phone. She made us approach her for straws, silverware and even the check. I'm convinced we could have walked out of Angela's without paying, and she wouldn't have even noticed because she was too busy texting.
Maybe that's what we should have done in the first place. While she was looking up more crappy tattoos to paint on her body, my girlfriend and I could have been snacking on free buffalo chick strips and mozzarella bites. That would have actually been a meal I would've enjoyed.
My girlfriend heard about this restaurant called Bar Louie that she wanted to try out. It's a place where you can sit outside and have a beer, so it sounded nice. Unfortunately, there was too much of a wait for an outdoor table, so we had to settle for sitting inside.
Our waiter looked like Troy Polamalu. He was a tan, Pacific islander in his 20s with crazy, fuzzy hair that was tied up in a ponytail. He was also gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), as I quickly discovered when he talked to us with that sort of voice. He asked us if we wanted to start off with something to drink. My girlfriend asked for a Yuengling, while I went a Miller Lite.
Gay Waiter: Wait a sec! You're getting the Yuengling, and he's getting the Miller Lite!? Shouldn't it be like the other way around!?
Me: What's wrong with Miller Lite?
Gay Waiter: Oh nothing, it's just that like the guys usually order the manly beers like Yuengling, and the girls order the light beers!
Me: But I like Miller Lite!
Gay Waiter giggled and walked away. My girlfriend, who used to be a waitress when she was in college, shook her head. "You're not supposed to do that... the guy usually pays the bill, so servers shouldn't insult them like that."
Believe it or not, but that was the least-offensive thing Gay Waiter did that evening.
I ordered a meatball parm sandwich with pepperoni on it. That came with my choice of French fries or tater tots, and I naturally selected the latter. I also asked for a salad. I picked up on the fact that he didn't ask me what type of dressing I wanted, so I asked him about it.
Gay Waiter: The salad comes with this house dressing, it's fabulous!
Me: House dressing? Ugh...
Girlfriend: Do you have Ranch? He'll only eat Ranch.
Gay Waiter: Yes, we have Ranch dressing.
Me: YES!!! I'LL TAKE IT!!!
I don't know why he didn't mention that in the first place. Why would he assume that I wanted house dressing? What the hell is a house dressing anyway? I don't want salad dressing made out of a freaking house.
Gay Waiter returned with our salads. The dressing was in a side saucer, which offended me because I hate mixing things. If I'm paying for a meal, I shouldn't have to mix anything. That's complete bulls**t.
I poured the dressing onto the salad, it didn't look like it was dripping right. Trust me, I'm a Ranch dressing connoisseur. I know Ranch dressing when I see it, and this was not Ranch dressing. I tasted it to confirm, and sure enough, it was putrid.
I nibbled on my salad in misery, though I was hopeful at the same time because my meatball pepperoni parm sandwich was coming. It seemed like it took eons, but the food finally arrived. The sandwich itself looked fine, but the tater tots were missing. There were fries on my plate instead.
I was pissed. Not only did this a**hole insult my choice of beer, but he gave me the wrong salad dressing and served me fries instead of tater tots. I understand that Gay Waiter may have been pissed that Michael Sam didn't make an NFL roster, but he didn't have to take it out on me! What did I do to deserve this!?
I complained about my lack of tater tots, and he apologized. As I was waiting for them, I saw my girlfriend do something fascinating. You know how when you have fries, you put a glob of ketchup on your plate and dip the fries into them? Well, she actually poured the ketchup directly onto the fries and ate them with her fork. I was speechless.
Me: That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen.
I copied her maneuver. I stuffed ketchup-covered fries into my mouth, and then the replacement tater tots arrived. I was in heaven.
Now that I think about it, most of my dining experiences aren't that bad. Sure, the servers hate me and want to kill me, but that's pretty much how everyone else treats me. And yet, those other people don't give me free, ketchup-covered fries.