Given the general tenor of my posts here, most of you probably think of me as a fairly passionate individual, one with strong opinions and emotional reactions. You may even assume these rule me. While this blog does act as a release-valve for my snark and bile, I would be lying if I said the catharsis is entirely healthy. In venting, I sometimes become even more enraged as I analyze every little thing that annoys me. Writing these ranticles (rant+article=ranticle, get it?) fosters my cynicism and negative perspective on humanity. So, if you are one of the regulars who still checks in here, you have probably noted how sporadic my posts have become. It takes a lot of energy to stay this indignant and critical all the time, and I would prefer not to live that way. More so than ever, I strive for what the ancients called ataraxia, a freedom from concern or distress over the things beyond my control. To live in a state of Zen-like equanimity is my goal.
Well, I fail pretty fucking hardcore there. I admit it: I am what I am. So, here's a quick reference guide for things customers at my restaurant say or do that pisses me off something fierce. If I'm starting to repeat myself on this subject, just tell me.
Waters with your nonalcoholic beverages – 90% of you do this
out of pure habit, because I am inevitably bussing away 90%-full water glasses
at the end of the meal, so stop it. You
already have a fucking drink, don’t get greedy. Coffee or other hot beverages are the only exceptions to this.
“I’m allergic to
onions.” – Well, since an onion allergy is not a thing, no, no you’re not. Not liking something is not the same thing as
being allergic to it. When I was a kid, I
used to say I was “allergic” to girls, but that didn’t make it true (I think). Same goes for those of you who do not have
celiac disease, but claim you’re allergic to wheat gluten, except in the chips,
which you are magically immune to because you really like them.
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| *Pictured: Not your death. |
“Is a cup or a bowl of soup bigger?” – Are the bowls in your
house freakishly small, or the cups strangely gigantic? Because we define “cup” and “bowl” the same
way normal people do: cup<bowl.
“How’s the _______?” – Awful. It really redefines “sucks elephant dong” in
a whole new way. Seriously, you know
we’re trained to give everything our restaurant produces a verbal blowjob,
right? Do you ask Coke if it’s better
than Pepsi? I mess with people by
telling them something is grosser than moose taint when in reality it’s
Christly delicious.
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| Nah, we put glass-shards in that. |
“Oh, my goodness, no,
I can’t have a drink, I’m driving!” –
That’s why I didn't say, “Hey, want to get blackout brain-fucked on an endless
stream of moonshine?” Trust me, imbibing
16 ounces of piss fizz while eating your 1,700-calorie meal over the course of
an hour is going to have a negligible effect on your probably-already-atrocious
driving skills. Prudes. If you don’t want to drink booze, just tell
me that, rather than make up some bullshit excuse why you can’t, like a first
date who won’t put out.
“Can you make it with less juice/soda/sour mix?” OR “I couldn’t even taste the alcohol in the
last one.” – First off, I’m not an idiot, like you, so you’re not going to
trick me into changing the booze-to-mixer ratio by asking for less of the
latter. We have set proportions that
the company dictates, known in the industry as “recipes,” which account for our
alcohol usage when inventory is taken. I
have to abide by them. Second, the
majority of modern mixed drinks are designed to hide the alcohol flavor, not accentuate
it – just because you can’t taste much of it doesn’t mean it’s not there. And you ordered a piña fucking colada anyway,
ass-hat.
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| Trust me, you can't afford the brain-freeze or the added damage anyway. |
“Yup, we’re ready to order.
Jim, you go first.” – Ready to order means you have decided on your
meal and are reasonably sure everyone else at the table has, not that you have decided, yes, you want to eat here today. You sure as shit don’t declare this then
defer to someone else, as if the extra twelve seconds it will take me to get
those other orders will buy you enough time to make your life-altering
decision. Women, I am looking at you especially, because you seem to have a gender-wide condition that causes you to automatically say, "Yes, as long as I go last."
Whining like a little bitch with a skinned knee and shit – I
actually blame the industry for this one, because we have collectively taught
you to do it. You have learned that
expressing the slightest disappointment with any component of your dining
experience is apt to get you freebies of one kind or another. It’s Pavlov’s dogs all over again. Case in point: a few nights ago I had a
customer who thought she was supposed to get curly fries, which we don’t make,
with her meal, and proceeded to act as if their absence on her plate completely destroyed the entire
night and quite possibly her psyche.
I mean, she acted absolutely crushed. Over goddamned curly fries, even though she
still got regular fries. No alternative would do, no words would end her infantile sulking. I'm sorry, I mistook you for an adult.
“I don’t want to complain, but . . .” – Then don’t. Just shut up.
KP, out.
