Everything You Ever Wanted To Hear

Dear 50% of My Customers,

I just want you to know that yes, asking me for a refill on your water, or trying to place an order, or requesting your desert while my arms are straining under the weight of five or six noodle bowls and other assorted dirty dishes on their way to the bins is, indeed, one of the most fan-fucking-tastically brilliant ideas you've ever had. It's not like if I'm delayed a second longer, my thumb is going to give out because the bowls are oily and heavy when stacked or boiling hot and burning my hands. It's not like that would lead to dishes and soup and noodles all over the floor. It's not like I'd have to clean all that up because you just can't wait until I'm empty handed.

Keep up the good work. I really appreciate it.

Hate,

Andrea

I swear, some people go out of their way to locate a waiter/tress who is laiden with the most possible dishes to torment disturb aggrivate irritate  infuriate annoy call over and enact brutal brain cell genocide upon ask any number of pointless things that can definitely wait the whole two minutes it takes to deliver food/dump dishes in the bin.

12. Food service employees who assume that when you said, "No tomatoes," you were lying.

[Source: Sparknotes' 50 Things That Should Not Exist]

Dear Sparknotes,

Maybe you didn't say no tomatoes. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you didn't enunciate. Maybe you said 'lettuce' but meant tomatoes. Maybe you told me in between yelling at your demon children in a vain attempt to shut them the fuck up and I didn't quite catch it. Maybe you were having an elaborate conversation with your friends and trying to order at the same time. Maybe you said it like a quirky fact, not a request (e.g. "I really hate tomatoes" vs. "No tomatoes, please") and figured I'd magically discern what you actually meant because waitresses make great robots and psychics. Maybe your friend placed the order for you because you couldn't wait the five minutes it would take for me to come around before running outside to answer your phone. Maybe you were lying. Maybe you were making a stupid joke, you jackass kids, and I took you seriously because you failed to clarify. Maybe the kitchen made a mistake, not me. Maybe you really pissed me off so I purposely left the tomatoes off in hopes that you were violently allergic to them.

And maybe, just maybe, I was really busy and overwhelmed and I simply made a human error. It's not like you've ever done something like that, or something else equally ridiculous and annoying and stupid and infuriating, right?

Maybe you can suck my figurative food service employee dick,

Andrea

***

Cross-posted to the ever-delicious Even Idiots Order Pizza.

Dear Self,

Just because you relocated to Boston for college doesn't give you the right to be a slacker. Get off your ass and write some of those backlogged blog entries, you idiot.

Way To Catch The Stupid,

Andrea

So I don't actually work at Noodle Pirate Land anymore. I'm on the other side of the country now and absolutely despearate for a job, but I've still got some entries saved up when I decided to stop updating and start packing like a beast (three suitcases that were basically bigger than me and two carry ons: not fun), so this blog's not quite over yet (and given the type of job I get, it might just soldier on for a while longer). But it's about time I actually sat down and procrastinated on an outline for a presenation like a real college student, so expect to see more from me soon.

Apologies to all seven readers or so that I have.

Dear Mother at the Counter (and, Subsequently, Her Two Hellspawn Children),

You are everything I hate about females/mothers, all packaged into one little woman. Picky, bitchy, loud, rude, obnoxious, overbearing, inarticulate, inept at controlling your children, negligent, oblivious, and possessing really bad, puffy hair to boot. How did you not notice your kid climbing onto the counter? And if you did notice, how did you let him get away with it? It's women like you that make me think that parents should need a license to bear children. Like, run some psych tests or something, because you are clearly underqualified.

And when you asked for a Japanese tea, and I repeated to you,"The Japanese Milk Tea, right? Hot?" and you nod, do not ask me in a completely horrified voice, "What is this‽"when I bring you a hot Japanese Milk Tea and then insist that you ordered a regular hot green tea. You're as bad as those giggly teenage girls that make me want to kick small children. And your brats are prime targets, so I'd suggest you watch out.

Hate,

Andrea

I'm not even kidding about the parental license thing. I see so many parenting fails every day, it's starting to get a little obscene. If these children are uncontrollable monsters at age 6, what're they gonna be like when they're teenagers? This actually reminds me of a couple nights ago, when I saw this family at restaurant I happened to be dining. They had the seven/eightyear old boy set up with a portable DVD player and some headphones...at the dinner table. While they all ate. While he ate. Like, wait what?

Of course, when the movie ended and the headphones came off, we all discovered why they had the child so kindly plugged in: the boy starts wailing like a freaking siren. Not even because he's sad, but because he found it to be a cool sound effect or something. And instead of taking the boy outsideor reprimanding him or anything, the family's just sitting around laughing. They're amused by this bullshit. Like it's hilarious that their child can double for a fire truck's siren in both decibel and vocal reach.

We wouldn't have these kinds of problems if there were parent-licenses. I mean, we'd have a lot of other problems, but maybe they wouldn't regularly pierce my eardrums.

Dear Customers at Table A2,

Did you...just...ask me to settle a grammar debate? Like, seriously? As in, you actually took me seriously enough as an individual to trust that I knew grammar. Like, you didn't look at me like I was a high school drop out. And you...valued my opinion enough to take my determination seriously. Not that it was a particularly complex question, but...never in my life have I so wished I was down with polgamy, because I would marry all three of you in a heartbeat.

And you gave me extra tip for answering your grammar question. I can hear the wedding bells ringing in my head already.

With all the love in my heart and soul,

Andrea

I've never been so thrilled talking to a customer in my life. Except maybe that one really hot guy who was charmingly forward without making me think he'd pile me in his rape van when he was done with his meal. That was a fun day (eight dollar tip for a 25 dollar meal and a place setting folded up into an oragami heart left on top? <3).

Dear Every Customer of My Restaurant Ever,

Just because Erin and I are both white does not mean we are related. I mean, just LOOK at us. We do not resemble one another in the SLIGHTEST. For all the bitching you Asians do about "omgomg put this yellow dot in your profile if you've ever been mistaken for another Asian by the ~stupid white people", you sure are pretty quick stereotype the two white girls working at a Japanese restaurant. Because that's the only way that could ever happen, right? We'd have to be sisters for the both of us to be Asian noodle pirates. There is just no. other. option. It's not like I'm half Chinese or anything. It's not like Erin's not married to a Chinese guy and speaks better Mandarin than I probably ever will. And even if these two things weren't true, it really shouldn't be that difficult to comprehend people of any race working at any kind of restaurant. I don't know when it became a rule that only Asian people could work at an Asian restaurant.

Hate,

Andrea

Seriously, she even moved to an entirely different branch, and people still either mistake me for Erin or assume that we're blood bound or something. I can't even count the number of times customers have asked me, "Hey, do you have a sister who works in the San Gabriel branch?"

No. No I do not. Is that guy at A9 your brother? Cause, I mean, you're both Asian-ish. Sure, he's Korean and you're Chinese, but hell, it's totally feasible, right? Are you just related to like, every customer on the patio right now? Because as far as I can tell, you're. all. Asian. So you see how I came to this brilliant conclusion of mine, what with your infallible logic.

Have I mentioned I hate...basically everyone? Because I do.

Dear Customers,

Notice how I'm not wearing my bandana anymore? How my apron is off? Maybe you've taken a whole two seconds to realize that I'm sitting at the counter, gorging on food after feeding your sorry asses at more appropriate mealtimes. Now, here's your final examination guys, and it's a toughie: What could this possibly mean? Maybe I'm off duty, and reveling in the fact that I don't have to deal with any of you for another twenty four hours or so?

Unfortunately for me, you people take these red flag warning signs as an enthusiastic indication that you should ask me for any and everything possible. A cup of tea, a scoop of ice cream, for me to clear your plates, refills on Coke for your whole entire table. And if you're nice about it, and you're not asking for much, sure I'll help you out (even if I really don't feel like getting up to get you one more cup of tea). But for those of you who give me a death glare whenever you ask for something and I apologize and tell you that I'm off duty but let me get someone else to help you? Go fuck yourselves, because you're lucky I even responded. I'm under no obligation to do anything for you if I'm not getting paid for it.

So if I am off duty, kindly do me a favor and ask someone who is on duty to fulfill your noodle needs, because this Noodle Pirate has clocked out.

Hate,

Andrea

But really, who DOES that? Who looks at someone sitting at a counter eating and goes "SHE looks like someone who is ready and willing to help me!" (INTERROBANG, BITCH‽) Like, how does that make any sense at all? Especially when there are like three other waiters, bandanas on their heads and aprons at the ready, wandering out the store? Like, are these people all so impatient that they can't wait all of two seconds for an on-duty server to round the corner and attend to their ever need? Is everyone in this world a trigger happy, Ritalin popping FPS player, and I'm just that lone little RPG waitress in the middle of the chaos?

People are unbelievable. Truly.

Dear Ice Machine,

Fuck you.

Hate,

Andrea

Isn't the idea behind an ice machine to actually, I don't know, make ice? Instead we're taking the ice from the kitchen's REAL ice machine bucket by freaking bucket and feeding it into its bastard son in the desert room. Pain and irritation we shouldn't have to endure, really. Last time I checked, it wasn't called an ice dispenser.

...Sometimes I remember why I secretly love my job.

Dear general public,

Even Idiots Order Pizza may make me sound like a loveless, hateful, cynical bastard (not completely untrue), but there are actually customers that I like. Crazy, right?

It's not even just the consistently good tippers-- I mean, I do light up and suddenly get a (marginally) better sense of humor when they show up, but the nice people get special treatment, also.

I would like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for all the nice people I run into at work. You're great (and everyone knows it, even if they've never served you--we employees talk). You make my day a little more bearable. When you choose to refer to me by my name and not by snapping your fingers or shouting "Hey you!" across a crowded diningroom, my feet hurt a little less, I feel a little less exhausted, and I don't mind the garlic smell that has permanently affixed to to every single article of clothing I own as much.

Thank you. Keep it up. You're always welcome.

Now, for everyone else (Just like with the good customers, everyone knows the bad ones, too. Like I said, we talk):

Remember the "golden rule" that was repeated over and over again between the time you could speak and the day you left your mother's house? This is sorta like that. When you come to any dining establishment where you will interact with someone that's working, remember what I'm about to tell you.

Treat others with a basic, human level of respect and waitstaff will treat you like the king of the world.

I'll smile, be personable, talkative, and ever-so-friendly, all I ask for in return is a tiny little bit of decency.

Free shit and gratuitous nudity costs extra, though. Sorry.

I'm not saying if you're having a bad day and just want to get down to business that you'll get horrible service, because that's not true.

If you're (obnoxiously) loud, messy, and treat a member of the waitstaff like a side of beef in Rocky Balboa's meat locker (verbally, not physically...actually, either will result in piss-poor service and maybe an arrest record), yes, you will get the human-interaction equivalent of trying to buy something from a vending machine only to have the bag of Doritos hang from the ledge, caught on the spiral-y thing.

[Note: You have just read my first and last reference to both a Sylvester Stallone picture and Doritos. I feel dirty.]

Now that you know, there's very rarely going to be an excuse to warrant discourteous behavior towards a waiter or waitress. If there's ever any confusion as to what is socially acceptable, follow these simple rules:

1) Don't expect me to read minds. I don't know that you're a vegetarian/allergic to milk/fucking hate mushrooms, so tell me, or else I can't help you.

2) Always leave a tip if someone has waited on you. 15% is standard, it should go up from there. I get paid well below minimum wage, throw me a bone here. You'd be surprised how often a waiter or waitress is stiffed, but wouldn't be surprised how quickly that person gets shit-listed by the entire staff.

3) R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Give a little, get a lot.

[Note: I just made my first and definitely not last Aretha Franklin reference. Awesome!]

With ever-so-much...erm..."love",

Your Waiter

(Today's note/cross post is compliments of the positively fantasmagorical author of Even Idiots Order Pizza, a blog with enough endlessly entertaining food-service related bitterness and spite at the stupidity of humanity to rival my own. And the writing makes more sense/is generally better, too. So get on that, because you're missing out.

Love, Andrea)