This past Sunday I had quite the day. I had a lunch shift at 11:30AM, but I wasn't able to leave until 7PM. We were busy and everyone was rather stressed. I had high-maintenance tables who didn't tip well and sat there talking for WAY too long, all day, such that I barely made any money. To top it all off, I needed to roll 105 sets of silverware before leaving, so by the time I got out of there I desperately needed a nap. The icing on the cake: my last table contained a Skeevy Scalloper.
I dealt with crazy, indecisive old people (which was all right; they called garden salads "garlic salads" and all pasta is macaroni to them, but they were polite, endearing, and soft-hearted, and actually called my manager over to give me some solid waiter-praise, so I didn't mind them all that much). I dealt with a table full of middle-aged women who, in the middle of the afternoon, wanted to eat less to keep their figure but drink more (mixed fruity drinks and mudslides) to forget that they were taking in calories. Remember, it's my job to oblige them and take their money, not to inform them of their counter-intuitive reasoning. I even dealt with this one ridiculous Shrimpmonger whose meal went thusly:
"Hello! My name is Calvin, I'll be your server this afternoon. How are you today?" I'm always pleasant on the approach. I want a pleasant meal for my guests, because it makes MY time more pleasant.
The overweight gentleman in the snazzy faux-leather jacket and the flat-brimmed blue sports cap regarded me with a, "Y'all got that flavored fruity lemonade drink... whatizzit... uh, strawberry lemonade. Gimme one a'those. She want one, too."
I'm doing great, too, thanks! "I'll be right back with your drinks, sir, and then I'll explain a few of our newer menu items." People, I implore you. We do enough of this fast-paced, selfish, time-crunching in our most common communication forms (text, IM, social network sites); when face-to-face with someone, take the time to at least pretend you care how they are doing when they've asked after your well-being. It's more than courtesy. I call it being human.
I swung over to the galley to get their drinks and then began to explain our promotions, the whole time just waiting for him to interrupt me. I wasn't disappointed. He cut me off about half a sentence before I was done.
"Yo, I want the dish wit all the fried stuff, but listen - last time I changed this one thing for scallops because they was out of shrimp, but then they tried ta charge me for that. Man, they was out of it. It ain't my freakin' fault, knowhatibesayin?"
"Yes, I understand entirely. I agree with you, if we were out of an item you wanted, we should have made sure you got an adequate replacement at no additional cost."
"Yeah, well, this time I don't want no fish, I just want more fried shrimp. You got that?"
"Yes, we have that. But sir, please understand that this time there may be an additional charge for the substitution. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, whatever. And with my meal I want a coke..." He paused. "With..." Another pause. He stared at me with indignation, as if to say, "Come on, waiterman, throw me a bone here! I'm trying to figure out what the hell I want!" Finally, he had it, and I could see the yellow light bulb forming above his head. "Uh, lemon."
"No problem, sir," I said with a pageant-winning smile. "And what kind of dressing would you like on your salad?"
"Get me these Thousand Island and ranch, but bring it to me."
This time I paused. Why would I not bring his salad to him? Who else would I be bringing his salad? "I'll have it out with some bread in a minute, sir."
"Yeah, bring it to me." He looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Clearly, that explained the communication issues we were having. Thankfully, his wife (whom he'd silenced by interrupting her up until now) intervened to help translate.
"No, you can't just say, 'Bring it to me,'" she informed him, "you gots to tell him." She turned to me and said in a tone you'd hear in an aside on stage, "He wants the dressing on the side."
So, folks, it appears that the phrase, "Bring it to me," is Shrimpmonger for, "On the side, please."
I won't bore you with the details of how he sent his dish back because the "shrimps wasn't right," how he wouldn't explain what that meant, or why he said the new ones (made exactly the same way) were "like, so much better," but you get the idea. Shrimpmonger: 'nough said.
The Shrimpmonger is quite the beast, and I see them ALL the TIME. The Shrimpmonger doesn't mean to be mean to the waiter, he or she just wants what he or she wants and the waiter inevitably ends up collateral damage. But the Skeevy Scalloper is a sly, sneaky creature who creeps up into your booth and waits, a predator of the friendly waiter. Some servers are put off their game by the Skeevy Scalloper - they don't know how to respond. Some of us, though, are born ready to go toe-to-toe with these jerks. You'll see what I mean shortly.
As I said, my last table contained a sixty-something Skeevy Scalloper, his wife, and her mother. I greeted the three-top in my usual cheerful way and then asked if they would like drinks and/or appetizers. The two ladies asked for Riesling, and the gentleman, who was seated closest to me, said, "Uh, get me a rum and coke. But none of that fruit bulls***, if you know what I mean." I did know what he meant, and placed his bar order to exclude the lime garnish it would normally have had. I thought, at the time, that the cutesy little politically incorrect joke was going to be the end of that. I really need to work on a Skeevy Scalloper Radar.
When I brought their drinks to them, I began explaining the specials but the Scalloper stopped me in my tracks. "We know what we want." The woman beside him looked at me, confusedly, and exclaimed, "Wait, I'm not! Could you explain this meal-for-two deal?"
I took pleasure in saying, "Absolutely!" and proceeding with the rest of my spiel. I described, in delicate detail, our expertly crafted appetizers, elegant entrees, and delectable desserts. I pointed out the menu selections featured in the deal she mentioned, and made a few personal recommendations. She and her mother gave oohs and ahhs at some of the options, and the Scalloper rolled his eyes. "All right," he said, "give us a few more minutes with this freakin' novel of a menu. Is it on the Times Bestseller List? Ha, ha, ha..."
By now I figured out exactly what type of guest he was. I cracked my mental knuckles and got ready to laugh very slightly at all of his stupid jokes along with him. "It is," I said. "I'm still collecting royalties. I wrote it, you see. In fact, if you'd like to take one home with you, it'll be 7.95 in paperback and 28.95 in hardcover."
His two lady companions laughed out loud, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, look, we got us a smart waiter!" You have no idea, Mr. Skeevy Scalloper.
I came back a couple of minutes later and they were ready to order. Almost. "You can come to me last," his wife said. "I'll be ready when you do." They always say that. In my experience, that's true a whopping 50% of the time. Still, no skin off my back. I started with the Scalloper.
"I'll have a quarter-pounder with cheese, no pickles, ha, ha, ha." He smirked and shifted in his seat, clearly thinking he was the funniest thing since Jim Carrey put a green mask on and flailed his arms, screaming.
I made a quick note on my pad, and he jumped on the opportunity. "HA! You were going to write that down!"
"Yes, sir, I was making a note to change the ticket to a table for two." I turned my attention to his wife. "It appears the gentleman won't be dining with us tonight, ladies. He appears to prefer McDonald's over our company."
"Oh, ho, ho," he laughed, "you're a quick one." I flashed him a genuine smile and took his companions' orders. They did end up ordering the meal for two, so I jotted down my notes and told them I'd be back in a jiffy with their salads and bread.
"Here you are," I said, placing their salads on the table.
"That was fast," the Scalloper remarked.
"Yeah, I'm kinda speedy," I agreed.
"So, Speedy," his wife piped up, "could you also get me a glass of water?"
"Heh, heh, Speedy," Mr. Scalloper mused under his breath. If he meant to call me Speedy all night, I meant to make his dining experience eventful.
"Actually, dear, my name's not really Speedy," I laughed.
"Yeah," said the Scalloper. "It's Calvin. 'Cause I'm Alvin. Ha, ha, how funny is that?"
My psychic powers told me that he didn't want me to answer that question, so I let it be. Drake would be proud.
The Scalloper picked up his own thread. "But seriously, you are pretty fast. For a white guy. And a waiter, ha, ha, ha."
"Thanks. I think." I gave him a quizzical look, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an indignant response or, really, any response, and walked into the alley. Margaret was right behind me on my way in.
"Did that guy at table 25 just call you a white guy?" She brushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and began rolling silverware.
I nodded and confirmed that yes, he did just call me a white guy.
"Did he realize that you're white?"
I admitted he probably did - he's old but his eyesight appears intact.
"Did he not remember that he's white, too? And the other two guests at the table?"
"I don't pretend to understand my guests. I just bring them their food. It's simpler that way."
A short while later, I brought their food to the table.
"... and the Supreme Seafood Dish for the supreme gentleman," I said, placing the Skeevy Scalloper's dish in front of him.
"He doesn't know me very well, does he?" the man said to his wife. "But he does know how to make a tip, ha, ha, ha!"
"You can call it encouragement rather than acknowledgment." I gave them a wry smile.
As I walked away, I caught him with his eyes stuck on the backside of one of my coworkers while he ate, a ravenous grin breaking his face between chews of seafood. I proceeded to the fountain beverages in the alley to rinse with cola the taste of vomit from my mouth.
Later, I came back with their check when their dessert was nearly finished. "I can refill your coffee or get you water when you need, please feel free to take your time - I'm leaving this here for your convenience."
"This is not convenient." The Skeevy Scalloper was looking at me from under heavily disgruntled eyebrows. "Didn't you say this was on the house?"
"No," I said, "but it can be. Let's say it's on your house."
"Ha, ha, get that f***ing thing outta here, know what I'm sayin'? Ha, ha, ha."
I had personalized their check with a smiley face and a large image of the golden arches enclosed in a circle with a line through it. As I looked back at the table, I could see he was amused enough to pass it around. I checked on another of my tables and overheard him behind me saying, "See, he put a smiley face there because he wants a tip, ha, ha, ha." Yes, you bright, intelligent man, of course I do. I don't work here as a hobby.
Finally, I returned to take care of their payment and explained our survey to him.
"You don't want us to fill that out."
"Sir, I would love for you to fill that out, because the company wants you to fill that out, and while I'm dressed in these clothes with this nametag in this building, my soul is leased to the company."
He nearly died laughing. He managed to get a hold of himself long enough to finish signing his credit card slip and leave me a 25% cash tip.
I believe the score is:
Calvin: 1
Skeevy Scallopers: 0
Boo ya.
LMFAO!!!!!
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