Momnesia

Five Minutes to Closing, and My Last Customer is A. S. Shole

Me (distributing entrees to table. Two steaks, one rack of ribs, and one Southwest Chicken): Now, do we need anything to top off the meal? Heinz 57, extra barbecue sauce, or perhaps honey mustard for your fries? I know I use a vat of it on my fries.
Stupid Bitch (looking with theatrical distaste at the chicken): What's this?! I didn't order this!
Me (laughing): Yes, ma'am, that's the Southwest Chicken you ordered. Chicken, topped with barbecue sauce, cheese, onions, bacon, and mushrooms, with a side of fries.
Stupid Bitch (shaking her head): No, that's not what I ordered.

The members of her table are eerily silent, staring at their plates. I sense that high noon was approaching, meaning, she was about to pull some crap she'd pulled somewhere before. I realized I'd probably be discounting their ticket, regardless of what happened from this point on. As a matter of principle that, frankly, I can't afford, I decide that's not going to happen this time.

Me (pulling out my notebook to check): Gosh, that's what I'd written down. What did you intend to order?
Stupid Bitch (narrowing her eyes at me): I didn't INTEND to order anything. I ORDERED the 16 oz ribeye.

I smile, but return her stare. No fucking way she ordered the 16 oz ribeye, and I'm sure it's just a coincidence that the steak is $10 more than the chicken.

Me: Really? Then I wish you'd corrected me when I called your order back and said southwest chicken.
Stupid Bitch (getting really angry and shoving the plate across the table at me): Just get me my steak.
Me (smiling and taking the plate): How would you like that cooked?
Stupid Bitch (smiling back, thinking she'd won): Well done.

I laugh. She's either going to eat that fucking chicken, or she's going to go hungry. Hell with her.

Me: That's going to take at least 20 minutes.
Stupid Bitch (mouth open): TWENTY minutes?!
Me (looking up in feigned surprise): Oh, yes. That large a steak, that well cooked, it's AT LEAST 20 minutes.
Stupid Bitch (looking around at her table mates. They're intent on their meals): I've NEVER heard of a steak taking TWENTY minutes to cook.
Me: How unusual. What side item would you like?
Stupid Bitch (realizing I don't give a crap): No, I don't want to wait 20 minutes.
Me (How long can I stall putting her order in without getting in trouble?): Like I said, it might be more. There are other orders ahead of you at this point. (A blatant lie. Recooks get first priority)
Stupid Bitch (huffing): Well, I ORDERED the steak. YOU wrote it down wrong.
Me (shrugging): My bad. What side item did you want?
Stupid Bitch: Did you hear me say that I didn't want to wait 20 minutes?
Me: Yes, but it's an unfortunate fact that I can't make the steak cook any faster. Unless you'd like us to microwave it for you.
Stupid Bitch (loudly): MICROWAVE?!

I see that her next tactic was going to be a temper tantrum, I decide to end this charade. Fuck my tip, and fuck her. I'm not as nice or philosophical a person as Waiter Rant. He's probably much smarter, and from what I read, works at a much better establishment. Yet, I digress.

Me: Those. Are. Your. Options. Now, I'll tell the kitchen to cook anything you want, any way you want it. But next time, if you'd just say the right item the first time, we won't have to play this game. Either way, I'll have to adjust your check to reflect the item you eat. If you'd like to speak to a manager, I'll be happy to have Dave come to the table. But I still need to know what it is you'd actually like to eat tonight.
Stupid Bitch: Well, I DON'T want to wait. I guess I'll just try the chicken. But I ORDERED the steak.
Me: Whatever you want. Will there be anything else?

Silence.

Me (turning to walk away): Enjoy your meals. I'll check back by in a couple of minutes.
Stupid Bitch (huffing): Uh! Now my food is cold!
Me (turning back with a smirk, seeing steam rise from the point she cut into her chicken): Like I said, we'll be happy to microwave it for you.

Stupid Bitch stabs at her plate angrily... but silently.

Me (returning): And how do we find everything?
Table, except for Stupid Bitch, says variations of "Fine."
Me (seeing that Stupid Bitch has eaten half of her chicken): And how do you like the Southwest Chicken?
Stupid Bitch (refusing to look up): It's not a steak.

I wait. There is silence.

Stupid Bitch (looks up, thinking I'm gone): It's FIIiiinnne-uh!
Me (smirking and walking away): Great! Be sure to save room for dessert, guys!

Cheap-ass fuckers should go to the Wal-Mart meat department. Incidentally, although everyone but that one lady tipped me 20%, one of the guys discretely pressed a $5 bill into my hand as they were leaving. It was nice of him, and I appreciated it, but I'd rather they kept their friend on a short leash.