The past few weeks at the restaurant have been pretty slow. Well, the work hasn’t been slow – the pace is still quick and the tables are filling up – it’s just the money that’s been coming in slowly. Monday night, for example, it seemed I couldn’t get more than a three dollar tip from a single table. It didn’t matter if the bill was $15 or $38.50 – the most anyone paid me for my excellent service the entire night was five bucks. And that was on a $45 tab.
And, no, I didn’t forget anyone’s entrée, nobody’s ice clinked in the bottom of an empty glass, and as far as I can recall, I didn’t, say, drop a tray of drinks in anyone's lap. Not that I didn't want to. I started to think maybe I had something hanging out of my nostrils all night or perhaps I was exuding a peculiar odor. But it’s been like this for some time now and I think I know why.
People are unhappy. I don’t know if it’s because summer is over, or because the country is at war, or if it’s because Kevin Federline was deemed a responsible parent. I’m not really sure. But the majority of the people I’ve encountered lately, at least at the restaurant, are a sad, sorry lot.
With very few exceptions, these are the two types of parties I’ve been getting:
Party one: Two or more guests sitting at the table when I arrive. I smile. I introduce myself and tell them I’ll be taking care of them today (yes, ‘taking care of’ like they’re my children or I’m a hitman). I ask if I can start them out with drinks. Sometimes they look up from their menus and grumble a hello. Mostly they mumble ‘sweet tea’ or ‘decaf’ and continue reading the menu. When I return with their drinks, they are still looking at the menus. I assume this means they still need a few minutes to look it over, but I ask anyway. They give their orders, one by one, then hand over their menus without making eye contact. Eye contact is apparently bad, which is why they were all still enraptured by the description of our country fried steak. No one at the table speaks to anyone else at the table. When I bring back bread and salads, the men at the table sit with their arms folded and are angled toward the aisle or wall, away from the other guests. They accept their bread plates in silence. Conversation is also bad. Each time I pass the table or stop to refill their drinks, I notice the absence of sound. I assume they are all deaf and mute because I can’t understand why any group of people would pay to go out to dinner if they found each other so intolerable and boring that they couldn’t at least participate in a conversation about the weather. Or football. Or Flavor of Love. Then I remember that they communicated with me. Maybe they are just conserving energy.
Party two: Before I can even open my mouth to begin my spiel, I hear one of the following: “It’s cold in here. Tell your manager to turn down the air conditioner.” “We’re starving. Bring us bread!” “Coffee. Black. And I don’t want any of that crap that’s been sitting. Brew a fresh pot.” It doesn’t get any better from here. They spend the rest of the meal barking orders at me. They speak to one another, but while I refill their sweet tea, I hear them arguing or complaining or nagging another member of the party. By the time the food comes, a full-on war has commenced and they are either whisper-yelling or just outright shouting at their children to stop talking and just eat. Twice this week alone, I have been asked for to go boxes within moments of delivering the food because having to endure one more moment with their friends and family would really send them over the edge. By the end of the meal, they resemble party number one. I wish them a good evening as they leave and am either ignored or met with a glare. I retrieve my three dollars from under their sweating water glass. They go home and kick a puppy.
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